Eight Men
by MorriganFearn
Summary: August 1945. At the end of the war, the nations deal in Nuremberg. Finland smiles through the bars, and Germany lies comatose. How Finland allied with the Axis. Sweden, Denmark, Norway, Prussia, Russia, America, Poland, Finland. History fic.
1. The Angel

**Author's Note**: This is an ambitious project of mine, stemming from my need for more Axis!Finland fics. Welcome to the history of Europe from eight different perspectives, all culminating in Axis!Finland. It is in the same headcannon continuity as _Sunlight Burning_, _Cold Sea_, and _Wolf and Lion_. I'm a little nervous, because I don't usually like to write anything where my political opinions on foreign affairs could become enmeshed, and with Hetalia, as soon as we get into living memory that happens very quickly. Hopefully I'll have pulled off a balanced story telling what I want to tell. Also, no historical note, because if I don't explain it within the story, it is not relevant. Welcome to chapter fics my pretties. Now with extra footnotes, and basic editing.

**Warnings**: Time is a flexible concept, Resistance!Norway deserves a warning all unto himself, Canada _stole_ the show from Alfred, and Romano's language is beyond insulting.

* * *

**Eight Men**

* * *

**Chapter 1: The Angel  
**

* * *

**Nuremberg, Germany August, 1945**

Berwald kept thinking that this could not be Tino. Disheveled and clapped in irons, the small wraith was still too tall, too broad shouldered, too unrepentant. This country had never needed a Su-san to look after him. Could he have ever—

And then, just then, the violet eyes turned from the bright sunlight filtering in the window. Tino's face broke into the open, sweet smile that no country but Tino could wear, because he was Berwald's Tino. The smile could bring light to the hardest heart, and the darkest place. The sad brown gloom of the cell lifted as soon as Tino smiled.

"Su-san, I did not think that you would come," the smile was one of genuine surprise and joy. _Look at me. Even when I have done a horrible thing, my friends are still good enough to visit me. This is why I love them._ Yet, despite the smile, the voice was wrong. Something had happened to Tino. His voice, the cheery prattle of a brook in full spring time flow, was flat and tired.

Berwald wondered if the confusion and horror was showing on his immobile face. Probably not, but Tino often saw things about him that other people could not fathom. Berwald liked that. He was Berwald in Tino's presence. Not Sweden. Berwald, who he had such a hard time getting used to, and Tino just dragged out into the bright light of his smile as though it was nothing. It had to be this quality that let Tino understand his moods and thoughts without any visual cue.

"Oh," with a sigh, Tino shuffled to the long bars of the door set in its stone box, "you're still angry."

"No!" the shout constricted in Berwald's throat.

He was not angry. Never angry at Tino. None of this was Tino's fault. He blamed Prussia, sick and deranged as a man without land could be. He blamed Germany, for being more twisted than his brother. He blamed the Italies for falling and for making Germany desperate enough to negotiate on Tino's terms. He blamed Russia just as he always blamed Russia. He blamed himself for not having the strength of will to stand over Tino, and look after him as he should have done. Never Tino.

Those violet eyes closed, and the mop of ragged blond hair fell across hollow cheeks. "Yes, you are. I did a terrible thing, Su-san, and you should be angry. But this is how it has to be, sometimes."

He just wanted to hear Tino laugh right now, and tell him that the last years had been a joke. Not apologies. "D'n't. J'st. No. D'n't."

And his arms reached through the vertical iron poles (his iron, the iron he had sold to Germany in exchange for a false peace [1]) to hug Tino. The body he wrapped up against his blue uniform felt so familiar, despite the added weight and strength. Two lengths of iron were all that kept him from discovering if the contours of their bodies still fit together like the contours of their border.

He felt Tino smile again, his hunger pinched face still pulling at the edges of the mouth nestled somewhere near Berwald's chin. "You don't want to understand, do you, Su-san?"

"Wh't's t' underst'nd?"

A lot, obviously. They were nations. Nations were complex and difficult, in of themselves, but lots of nations all thrown together like this? It was a _mess_. An unholy mess. Because they were nations with complex needs and feelings, and responsibilities, and Berwald was one of the worst when it came to prioritizing those. He had done the right thing. He thought. Probably. But to feel Tino tremble in his arms, even as the man clung to him—there was nothing to understand beyond that. This had been missing for centuries, and even now it was fragile and liable to go wrong.

From somewhere down that dim passage someone moaned loudly. A hopeless noise of despair in dawning light. The smile on Tino's cheeks fell.

"I think that's Germany," he whispered.

Berwald just hugged tighter. He did not care.

Tino continued, speaking about people and things that Berwald did not know. Did not want to know. Did not want to admit that he knew. "Prussia sometimes yells things out. I can hear them both, but I can't see them. Which is okay. Because I think I might go as cracked as they are if I kept company too long. You know they managed to convince me to hand over political prisoners? I shouldn't have done it. I even fed their gas chambers," something wet slid roughly down Berwald's throat, cooling his Adam's apple before slipping into the cloth of his collar.

"But I can still hear them. Germany was not, was not in the best of places after Italy went. When the rest of you took him—I can't imagine what that must have been like. All I hear is him crying out like that every so often. Prussia just swears, and yells to be allowed to see his brother, or Austria. Sometimes he just screams that Austria should die, and what he would like to do to him. It's refreshing, really. B-b-better than America coming down here with Russia, and-and-and lecturing him about what is okay to do to prisoners, and what isn't. I _know_ America m-m-means well, b-but he doesn't _know_ Ivan. He doesn't realize how much has gone wrong."

Tino lapsed into silence. Berwald was not certain which of them was holding the other up. Maybe it was just the strength of the hug, towing them through the musty brown enveloping dark when the strength of a smile was no longer enough.

Tino tried to resist it after a moment. Berwald could feel the familiar tensing of muscles about pull away, and the turmoil shuddering in Tino's frame. "Norway and Denmark visited me, you know. Just before you came," Berwald did know; Norway still had the knack for making him feel completely useless and like a monster all in one stare. "I think Denmark was really there to kick Prussia a bit. But luckily, it didn't get violent. Anyway, you don't want to hear about my troubles. It'll all get better some day. Even if I become Russia's again. It'll all be over some day. All the fighting, all the senseless waste, all the ruin. So, I'll look forward to that, right, Su-san?"

Yes. That was the Tino he knew. Bright. Happy. Lovely. Friendly. And at this time, in this horrifying place where something as bright-happy-lovely-friendly as Tino should never have seen, Tino was lying. Perhaps it was for Berwald's sake, or his own, of for the sake of both of them, who were both countries and people. Ones who loved each other very much. And because Berwarld loved Tino, he couldn't let Tino lie and forget, not this time.

"No."

Tino faltered in Berwald's grip. The larger man moved his hands to steady the land he had closed himself off from for two years. Tino stilled for a moment. "Ah? Su-san. We, we can't stay here, stuck in this place for the rest of our lives. No matter what happens, I won't be yours to take care of, anyway. We've got to move onwards."

Berwald nodded, knowing Tino could feel it against his shoulder. The seam on the army jacket's sleeve dug into his cheek just a little when he did that. After the nations decided what to do with the Axis Powers, Berwald would take Tino home, and fix that tear. Starved little Tino must be so cold in that cell.

"Y'r right," Berwald closed his eyes, still trying to wrap all of his feelings and anything that Tino might need from him into that hug. "But, t' do th't, I need t' hear you. J'st. J'st speak."

The smile tickled his chin. It rained on his throat. "Ah. Su-san. You want to be hurt, don't you?"

"No. But y' migh' h've t', t' st'nd on y'r own."

The cold dislike, the anger drifting on the snow of their personal storm. He had never been forgiven. But he could learn.

A small laugh that was wiser and deeper than Tino's laugh tickled his ears. "Where did you find that phrase? You don't like independence."

"I d'n't," Berwald admitted. "I d'dn't. M'ght as w'll dislike th' sun, tho'. Th't's one thin' I l'rned wit'out y'. W're all a st'bb'rn bunch."

Tino nodded into the side of Berwald's neck. "That we are."

* * *

Earlier, as Sweden swiped his hat from his head, and walked down the stone steps to the cells, a pale hand on his shoulder had stopped him. He craned his head backward, to look up the steep, inhospitable steps, shrouded in a gloom that could only be produced when it was brilliantly sunny outside, and a building was windowless. It was the kind of building that some nations adored, and others found an eternal punishment. The one who had stopped him was one of the latter.

"Isl'nd," Sweden breathed in surprise.

He had not seen the boy—now young man—since before the war. There was nothing of the bitterness of Norway, who might as well be his older brother [2], in the reserved glance cast in the tall country's way. Simply recognition, and something else, bubbling under his surface. Eagerness, perhaps. Excitement. Something would be happening soon.

"Svíþjóð," the boy acknowledged, flushing a little, as he let his human tongue run ahead of his sense. "I mean, Sweden. How are you?"

The cold blue eyes continued to assess him, and then finally, the answer came. "Fine."

Sweden wanted to continue downward. He had been told, by a smiling America, who looked as though something wonderful had just happened (although Sweden could not understand this in conjunction with the discovery of the camps he had guiltily suspected existed, and the word 'freedom,' which flew far too often from America's lips) that Tino was in the cell to the direct left of the stairs. However, seeing Tino would have to wait, as Island wanted to talk about something.

"I was going to see Denmark," the young man blurted out, still awkward enough around a more powerful nation not to know what to say when what he had to say was not going to be well received.

Sweden nodded, and jerked a thumb at the large dark rectangle of a doorway, questioning if Denmark had been allowed down ahead of him. Iceland returned a nod, excitement shaking his body once more.

"He's down there already. I saw Norway follow him. I hope—Norway suggested that he would be more approachable after he visited the cell block."

Tino was there. Everyone felt better after seeing Tino. Yet Sweden had wanted to, his thoughts faltered. What could he be doing on those steps? Going down to gloat? To say: I told you if you went to their side, I could not support you. I told you they were mad men. I implored you not to go to them, as they would eat you just as happily as Russia was already doing, and I could not put my people at risk by attacking them in retribution the way I could attack Russia and help you.

No, that was not what he wanted to say. Sweden was not even sure if that was what he thought. But the idea that Denmark and Norway would see Tino first irked him. He should have been there. From the first moment of capture.

_I heard that it was very short and easy, if that is any consolation, da? Sweet Финляндия _[3]_ just smiled, and let them lead him away, no protest. I warned Arthur that is what he does. He smiles sweetly, like an angel in a sunflower field just before he slides the knife in. They will let me have him, to correct that angel smile, da. This you would like, Швеция?_ [4]_  
_

And there was the laugh, booming out of his memories from the disheveled rush to get to Nuremberg this morning. How long had it been since he had left his borders? Land in war time was nightmarish, but the bombed ruins of Germany were almost worse. This was what happened after a nation was defeated so badly that the strain had cracked them. And it was necessary, and it was right, but Sweden never wanted to feel that coming up through his feet.

"Do wh't y' need," Sweden shrugged, continuing down the steps. To the left, a lone figure was almost visible, back to the stairs, staring out of a small window at a hopeful strip of blue. To the right, Norway stood blocking the way. His arms were crossed, and his face had lost much of the aloofness for sheer disdain.

"I did not realize they were allowing _neutral_ nations in already," he commented.

Sweden felt the winter's sting. 1940 had been a horrible year. He could not defend himself. Had this been Denmark, the worst Sweden could have expected was a hearty slap on the back that invaded his personal space, and took his breath away. Maybe some of Denmark's incessantly pleased, frustrating laughter. But this was not Denmark. This was Norway, blocking access to the right most passage and those cells for purposes of his own. He just shook his head, and headed left. Cold blue eyes bored into his shoulder blades.

It did not matter, what he had done to both of them. He was going to see Tino again.

* * *

Outside, as the sun was setting, and the events of the past had unfolded within the basement walls, Ivan found Natalya on the rubble of a building on the opposite street. She looked like a doll, even in her army green. He stopped for a moment, trying to blend in with the plaster dust rising though the air, just so that he could see her: a perfect little doll, her pale hair wrapped in black ribbon.

Ivan loved her. She was his sister. Brothers loved their sisters. Family. Family was all that was left. After fire, flood, famine, disease, and revolution, family remained. Perhaps only in the head of the person who survived it all, but they _remained_. So Ivan loved Natalya, even when all his better senses—and there were few enough of those left, as they were not part of Family, and not inviolate or indomitable—told him to run for the nearest hills when Natalya got that certain look in her eyes.

Now she did not have that look. Now he could be a good brother, and act as good brothers should, bringing their little sisters gifts. And in return, she could give him the little gifts like this. Times when she _looked_ like a good little sister. A doll that he had to protect. Who cared what was going on inside, if she could at least maintain this lovely semblance to the world? His doll-like little sister, cleaning her AVS. Ivan always disliked looking at it. The rifle was a flawed design, and he had gotten better at making these. It did not matter that Tino had stolen most of his anyway. Still, Natalya held onto hers like a toy, lovingly caring for it, and remembering to clean out the grease storage with methodical efficiency. She liked the complexity of the firing mechanism.

Something made her pause in wiping the dirtied rag around the disengaged barrel. Then with a speed that made Ivan proud _and not scared because that was his little sister who assembled gun parts with viper-like grace and quickness_, Natalya had the gun together and resting easily against her small, frail body. Surely she was a bird _and not a woman, young and terrifying, made of crazed little patchworks he had put together for her_ to be so lovely and delicate.

Those pale little chapped lips _that he has seen sucking at Toris' blood_, lifted at the corners. The eyes flashed predatory, for a second. Ivan knew that look. She would hide her true nature, thinking to get him to come to her, unsuspecting, like a deer heading for a hide where the hunter lurked.

As long as he stayed out of the range of physical contact, he would be safe, he reasoned. He had brought her presents, and could not, as a good older brother, abandon her. Just because sometimes _all the time_ he wished she was more like Ketyushka, who abhorred this kind of stain on a person, did not mean that he could refuse her sweet little request.

"ножичек? [5]" Ivan stopped a careful double arms' span distant from his darling baby sister. "The rest of the nations have agreed. Are you sure that you want the first shipment?"

"Oh, yes," her voice was throaty, an imitation of a grown woman's, put on just for Ivan's benefit. He did not shudder, because _good_ older brothers were _not_ revolted by their younger sisters. "They have hurt you. They plotted against you. They _betrayed_ you. I should have killed them a long time ago."

The trucks were arriving. Not there, in that exact place, but many places like it, where Belarus the beautiful waited, gun at her side, invisible, yet _there_. So strong and in love that the humans in those areas took heart, and were able to steel their own.

In hundreds of other places, Belarus raised her gun in time to that of Russian soldiers, and blew off the head of the first White Russian presented to her. Ivan, protected against it all in his thick coat, with his boss in his ear reminding him of the necessity, did not feel it as the men who had fought the revolution were massacred. They had not been humans. They had been Nazis, sometimes, sympathizers a lot of the time, cowards hiding in England, other times. They had stopped being Russians. By defying Ivan they became less than worthless.

So, it was okay for Natalya to gun them down all over Europe. Tomorrow he would tell her that was enough. Tomorrow he would pick up the gun, and continue the long deadly game himself. Because it did not hurt to shoot an animal, _even if it had believed in you, and loved you. It did not know the new way of things. The new way of things was Natalya, giggling a little china doll laugh, as she forced more blood down Ivan's throat._

In Nuremberg, Natalya danced. A little girl dance. A spinning doll that terrified Ivan, because she could come for him next, and he might not be able to stop her this time. She came to a graceful, natural halt. Spreading her skirt to the ruin and destruction, she curtsied to an invisible audience.

"Ah," the sound escaped a clever little mouth that was feeling more like a little sister's mouth than a desperate seductress' this day. "Vanya, thank Mr. Jones and Mr. Kirkland, please? It was wonderful. Am I to get more presents?"

Ivan thought about it, about the concessions Alfred had given him because Alfred was his friend, and did what friends should. He should do what good older brothers did in return. But they were his prizes. He did not want to share. Natalya could have the humans. Punishing them gave her so much pleasure that had nothing to do with Ivan at all, and therefore he enjoyed it just as much. Natalya could have the humans. He would take their nations.

"I do not know, ножичек [5]. I will have to see how much of Germany I get. If it is enough, perhaps you would like some of Ludwig, da?" he held out the peace offering.

The slatey eyes of his darling young child sister caught his smiling violet ones. No. No. No. This was not what she wanted. The smile died in Ivan's eyes. He wanted Belarus to be happy. He really did. He was not good at being a proper nation, but he could be a proper brother. "Ludwig is not to your taste, ножичек? [5]"

Natalya kept his gaze, before throwing herself at him. Those horrifyingly weak arms wrapped around his neck much more tightly than his scarf. He had to bend forward to keep her from strangling him. "Say it again," she whispered happily like a little girl. "I like it when you give me cute names in your language. Make it my language, Brother."

"I know you like your name, Natalya," Ivan replied slowly, not wanting to go down the mad road that Belarus was dancing. "What would you like from the spoils I will bring home? Minus Toris' head. He is _mine_," Ivan had to be firm about that. There were some lines even little sisters could not cross.

"I only want your name," Natalya whispered , her mouth flat against his ear.

Strong hands moved to disengage the delicate gun cleaning fingers from around his scarf. "No, sister. You have a name all your own. Many nations here envy you."

Again, the child came out of a girl trying so hard to pretend to be a woman. "I do not want their envy!"

Ivan set her gently against the ground. She did not understand. So seeped in war and lies and love, Natalya could not understand their lives yet. So few people did understand, and Ivan desired China for knowing, just as he adored America for not. Belarus needed to remain clean, and innocent, despite her bests attempts not to do so. She did not understand. Her road of madness was still filled with darker morasses that Ivan as a good older brother had to keep her out of as best as he could.

"I will give you Poland," he attempted. "Hungary will be your maid, ножичек [5]. I will get Austria to play his music for you. I will give you Tino. Whole, and unharmed, just for you to play with, da? I will _let_ you break Toris' fingers. Just please, stop this."

Those hard blue eyes frowned. For a moment, Ivan thought that he was breaking through. The day could not be better. He was victorious, and—with a jolt he realized that land he already considered his own was being partitioned. Those fools in the cellar! He would force Arthur and Alfred to submit for this insult. Francis was too weak to be involved in this, and Yao was still fighting off Kiku's animosity. There was no one else brash enough to _steal_ Ivan's land. Breaking into a run in the German twilight, Ivan left Natalya to consider his offer.

She passed a hand over her eyes. The leather of her thin gloves came away damp. Of course she rejected it. Natalya did not accept a substitute.

* * *

Much earlier in the day Denmark found himself licking blood off his knuckles, wondering if there was a wash basin somewhere in the basement prison. That had not erased the memories of being forced below Prussia's feet, or Roderich's sneer, but finally punching that red eyed bastard in the mouth had felt _good_. So what if it was nearly a century overdue? Revenge was sweet as Hell, even past its due date. All he needed now was to find Roderich, who he suspected was going to get away from this with nothing worse than a broken ego, if Denmark was not the one to take him down those desperately needed pegs.

Glimmering blue eyes looked to the side, where Norge stood, coiled like a trap, waiting for something. It had been a bad war this time around, Denmark knew, yet seeing Norge again, that had been good. The simple rush on seeing him had made Denmark as giddy as a child. Then, after Denmark asked where they were holding the German bastards, Norge had stated that he would join Denmark in his little visit. That had been great. It was really as though everything was finally repairing itself. Norge, fierce, unbeaten Norge had wanted to come along with Denmark willingly, not because he had nothing better to do, or because he was required to, but because he wanted to follow Denmark. Perhaps he even wanted their countries back in union. The thought filled Matthias with a brilliant warm delight. Norge and Danmark together.

And there would be more, much more. Matthias had plans. After listening to a drunk America expound about the League of Nations, Matthias had large plans. No! Huge plans. They were going to get together. They were going to be people and lands, and anything else they needed to be. But they would be together and talking, and it would be as though all those ages of war were just happy memories, and they would all visit one another, and it would be _great_.

Because if there was one thing he could have used over the last five years, it would have been something more solid than a wireless report talking about the continued battles on the Swedish border between Norwegian and German soldiers. Something more real than rebel newspapers telling him that the English had saved themselves with the might of fishing ships, making sad, proud little runs to grab soldiers, and then _return_ to grab more. Something more substantial than meetings that talked about adapting French plans for resistance operations. Something that lasted longer than a whisper on the street that _the Americans have entered the war!_ He had needed something more than a laugh at the damn Prussian and German as his navy sank behind him.

That was how the bastards had won for so long, wasn't it? _Allies_? Don't make Denmark laugh. They had been separate, conquered, and could not talk to anyone friendly. That had almost done all of the Germans' work all in one fell swoop. The night he had last talked to Sweden had been like a hot drink on a cold day. If he was getting mushy over that mumbling voice ungraciously acquiescing to his desperate plea, things clearly must have been black.

Well, it was not going to happen again, Denmark determined, grinning fiercely at his knuckles where the splits were not healing as quickly as he would have hoped. Now, while the iron was hot from recent shellings and war, they had the unparalleled opportunity to meet and promise to become a full pack. There was nothing like victory to bring everyone together.

"Norge?" Denmark asked, wanting to know what was passing through his old friend's head. Maybe get a bit of explanation about the tail-end of the conference with the Prussian. Maybe even find out what Norway had to say to the beaten colorless freak.

Norway turned his head to look over his blue shoulder. "Yes, Danmark?"

The carefully cultivated blankness in Norway's eyes when he had walked up to the Prussian was nothing like the disinterest with which Norway normally faced Denmark. The expression of fifteen minutes ago was not broken, but ignored memories of pain because that was the easiest thing to do. A man, who had directly faced a furious and clearly insane Germany in 1943, laughing with the miraculous disappearance of hundreds of humans and the ships sinking in the cold Baltic waves, found that he was a bit of a coward when it came to that expression on the face of his old partner.

"Just wondering if you'd seen a wash basin. Oh, and you got any idea where that loud America kid might be? I got a _wonderful_ idea I want to run past him."

Norway, about to answer, closed his mouth as the sentence ground itself to a halt in his pride. Tightening himself, he looked up the corridor, and pointed. "To your left. A blind man would be needed not to see the spigot."

Denmark ambled in the indicated direction with a wave of thanks. Norway heard feet on the stairs. Sverige's boots had a distinctive creak to them, and he had a certain way of moving that was thrown off by stairs. Normally he strode as though he was a small mountain range heading out for the local bakery, and no, that was not strange at all. He was like those stupid tigers on the posters [6]. He fit on the ground, and blended with the earth. But stairs were a complication the gliding step suddenly had to stomp down.

Behind the first set came a second, bounding and leaping. Norway would have blamed Danmark, but he was in search of cleaning supplies. Not Danmark, then. Influenced by him, though. A small smile lifted the tired corners of his mouth. Island. However, Sverige came first, and the curled mouth went hard in a straight line.

First, Sverige looked to the left. Where Tino waited, looking at the blue sky with his pretty little dreams. Not that Norway begrudged them. He understood. When you had the choice between being ground under a boot heel, or possibly lacerated by a whip at a later date, you took the whip. Because there was always a chance that you could catch the flailing end without hurting yourself. So Norway did not begrudge the pretty little dreams of Finland, because he shared them.

But Sverige looked left. To the cell with the best lighting, where Tino was. _Then_ he looked right, and encountered Norway's presence. Norway sneered with his eyes. He could put a sneer into his spine, if he had to.

"I did not realize they were allowing _neutral_ nations in already."

Sverige looked at him. Years of anger passed between ice blue and sea blue. Then the bright blond head nodded. He turned. Tino was more important than his collaboration and guilt.

Behind him, Island carefully trotted down the steps. "Norway? Norway, where is Denmark?"

"_Danmark_," Norway drawled, enjoying the way the young boy's face went red with embarrassment about his own language. Island could be so childish sometimes. After the long German occupation something as easy as a smile at the foibles of a younger nation was a relief. It was so simple this way. So much simpler than it had been before, "is looking for something to wash—,"

The weight of Danmark's playfulness pushing into him like a physical force warned Norway just before the larger nation pounced. Because it was Danmark, and not anyone else, Norway did not suppress the instinctive reaction, and he whirled, jamming the ball of his fist directly into the blunt nose, his left arm warding off the hug for an instant, before he pivoted in the opposite direction, and slammed Danmark's unprotected side with one outstretched leg, and pivoted once more as Denmark stumbled to the left, culminating the quick succession of movements by pressing one forearm against the Danish throat.

The teal bright wolf eyes danced with hidden laughter as Denmark felt his shoulder blades touch the moss growing stone wall. "Alright, Norge. No more."

Norway leaned in, pressing down to make his point, just as another point tickled his side. He did not ask how Danmark had managed to get the huge axe positioned so that one of the sharp points of the blade could bite right into Norway's kidneys. They both had been relearning the dirtiest tricks since 1940.

Island gulped, and both taller countries looked at him, Norway coldly smug, and Denmark just blankly confused, as though to ask: 'Can't you see that we're in the middle of something, kid?'

"Denmark. I wanted to let you know. Ah. I'm not coming back."

Norway pressed down more urgently, thinking that while he had wanted Island to declare his independence fully, this was not the way to do it and stay in one piece.

With a click, Danmark rested the head of his axe against the stone flags. He let his gaze slide back to Norway for a second, something faintly amused lurking in hooded depths, as he relaxed under the other nation's arm. Then, all business, he nodded at Island. "Sure."

Island's head shot up to fix Denmark with a concerned, frank stare. "Sure? I—I don't understand."

"Sure. C'mon, Island, what did we just fight all those bastards for, huh? You've been your own government now for at least a year, right [7]? Well, if you haven't managed to sink yourself yet, you won't do it now. Not like we get into wars over fishing rights any more, and what else could you do [8]? You don't really need me."

Norway stared, only keeping the presence of mind not to let his jaw hang open like an idiot. All these talks that Danmark had been engaging in with that complete waste of space, America, might have cracked the ancient nation. Was idealism contagious? Like a disease that would eat at reality until nothing remained, but a broken thought.

"Where is he?" A snappy twang broke the shock straining between the two winter bound countries.

Barreling down the stairs, his Błyskawica [9] swinging off one shoulder, Poland, his face showing scars, glared furiously at the Nordic gathering, as though they were responsible for his distress. "Where is America? England, even? Where are they?"

Looking between themselves all the northern nations shrugged. Denmark broke the confused silence. "How would I know? I haven't seen America since breakfast, and the eyebrows even earlier than that."

Poland snapped his fingers in irritated rage. "How _dare_ they! I was fighting before they were, and I was the one who sent my people to Arthur during his bleeding white period! I kept up the resistance before fucking _Francis_ got over his Vichy love affair with Germany. I maintained _my_ land! He promised! He promised that he would—," the blond threw back his head, and began to laugh. It was maniacal, and long. "Of course. Of fucking course. Like kid?" he turned bright eyes on Iceland. "A piece of advice that will stand you in good stead in your new life. Don't. Trust. Anyone. Friends, vassals, allies? Hah! They don't exist. We're fucking _Europe_. The land just isn't big enough for us not to fight over it. America and his demented brother, whatshisface—Mexico!—doesn't have a clue how lucky they are, holding all that land at their finger tips."

"Whoa!" Denmark protested. "Lay off the kid—,"

"Shut the fuck up!" Poland yelled. "What do you know? You had little Finland to keep you safe from that monster! They're _giving_ us to Russia! Everyone who just got in Ivan's deranged path as he stormed Ludwig's little fortress. If he had broken through your precious Finlandia you'd be in the stew right with us!"

Panting, Poland tried to control his trembling hands. God above, he usually handled this better. But he had been so sure. America and all that blinding _talk_ of heroes and loyalty. How had he fallen for it? At least with everyone else you could see it coming. From miles off they waved sabers and laughed like air leaking from tires. They didn't paint big dreams in the sky, and stuck the knives in while you were distracted by the beauty.

Suddenly as he had come, he had to run again. Maybe with a run, he could get the nerves under control. Blasting past the Scandanavias, Poland managed to settle into a long sprint. There had to be an exit to this stupid impromptu prison. A storm exit. Something.

* * *

After breakfast Alfred felt guilty. They had all been eating fried sausage and watery eggs, because there was not much else. The sausage had been stolen by Romano on the way to Nuremberg, and so America _did not ask_ if it had once belonged to humans who actually needed to eat. The eggs had come from another farm, and again America refused to look a gloating Francis in the eye. He just accepted his plate from Canada, and tossed his instant coffee at his brother. A little clean water—a nation could always find clean water—and they were in business.

Miles away, in Potsdam, his boss was was busy negotiating with the surviving leaders of the war. But they knew already the basic outcome. They were nations. It was less complicated for them, who only had to worry about one or two representatives per country, rather than hundreds and thousands of people—_how much food had they stolen from the German families? Was it enough for a meal? Enough for a week?_ Alfred, stop thinking about it! Be like Arthur, the uncaring. They are the enemy. They were the enemy. They would always be the enemy.

Denmark had asked first, a terrible glint in his eye, where those damned Germans were being held anyway? Arthur, complaining about the watery coffee and lack of civilized amenities like tea to the haggard and (to Alfred) insane-looking Francis, ignored the question [10]. Francis was absorbed in pushing the excuse for eggs around his plate, and contemplating berating the cook, who he was certain should have known better, although he was not sure who had cooked the meal. America couldn't be blamed for having been raised by England, and he was the one who had presented them with this shoddy excuse for breakfast, hadn't he?

So Alfred summoned his sunniest smile, and told Denmark. Norway, leaning across the taller nation to put his cup away, just caught America's eyes and nodded. Once. Silently. "I will join Danmark on the visit of the cells. When we are allowed to, of course."

Uncertainly, Alfred nodded, as the two northerners began to wash their plates, although Denmark ambled away in the middle, claiming to need a toilet. Norway followed soon, leaving the empty receiving hall where they had set up camp, and Alfred to catch the breath he had not known that he was holding. The resistance nations, although they were all cool, and awesome, and tough, and heroic, worried Alfred. Because they were all these things, and at the same time, they were angry, and deranged, and beaten, and under handed. Germany had taught them to go for both the balls and the throat at the same time. But the thing that all the allies shared was that they were tired, and Alfred, scarily, could not dredge up the energy to worry about Germany getting kicked.

It was horrible to allow people to get kicked while they were down, of course. Heroes did not do that, as he constantly explained to Ivan. He explained it to a lot of people. And then he went out into the dark fields at night, and shot anything that moved, because god damn this had been going on for too long, and if no one was going to play his way, he would play their way, and he was a _lot_ better at it than they were. When he was done, he felt sick. But at least it was Chicago sick, and New York sick, and Boston sick, and not useless sick.

Not useless sick like Germany's records made him feel. Like the pictures. He had known, too. Maybe not known in the way that Germany had known, but he had known. There was rot and sickness in this empire, and they all had closed their eyes and ears to it. But, damnit! America's fist left a sad dent in the wall, which luckily was covered by the door flying open, and the light that should have been there being completely blocked by a monolithic shape.

Arthur looked up, his expression a mix between disdain, resignation, and grudging gratitude. "Sweden. I'm surprised you came."

The huge nation, who Alfred had sworn was Russia upon his entrance—at some point he would really have to just sit down with a map and figure this weird half-continent out—nodded, stepping through the door. "Where T'no?"

"The cellar, mon ami," Francis' grin flashed a row of sharp teeth that worried Alfred.

Casting a puzzled glance at Canada, who was patiently helping bandage the latest laceration on Romano's skull, Alfred mouthed: "T'no?"

Matthew, who was the only one who could get close enough to the rogue Italy, as Romano had forgotten that he was even being treated for the injury he had received from tripping down the stairs to the cells earlier, whispered back: "Tino. Finland."

Alfred grinned, and put on his best welcoming visitors smile, because when someone walked through Germany's wasteland to get here, they deserved a smile. "Yeah. We put him on the left, just by the stairs."

"He has the most light," England agreed, making Alfred's forehead wrinkle.

Why was that important? Admittedly, Sweden looked as though he could take off heads, but surely they were all allies here.

The large blond started for the stairs, but was brought up short by Arthur's hand. "Er, no one is to visit the prisoners right now. C'mon, have some breakfast."

Huge and cold, Sweden glared, proving that there was something worse than his default expression. "'M goin' t' see Tino."

"No, you're not, you bastard!" Romano spat, twisting his head out of Canada's grip, the plaster on his chin drooping comically at one dangling end. The insult was not directed at Sweden so much as the world. "My retard brother's down there right now, and no one is fucking interrupting him."

Sweden blinked at the small nation, even as Arthur nodded. "We're hoping that Feliciano can bring Germany out of where ever he went when we took Berlin."

Alfred nodded. "And then justice will be served! Here, we've still got half a sausage left," he offered the looming nation Canada's plate, forgetting that Matt had not gotten to eat yet, between being their chef and medic.

Francis snorted at this remark. "I still say you should leave him and his brother to me, and save yourselves the farce of a trial."

"Ivan made his claim long before yours," Alfred replied.

He didn't know how he felt about this. Ivan had promised to be good. He had listened so carefully when Alfred had explained what was right and wrong about the way Ivan treated people.

"I still get a part of them," the wild looking nation hissed. "For everything they have done to me, and what they allowed to happen, I get a part of them. Danemark may be satisfied with a few punches. I want _them_."

"And I want _justice_!" Alfred snapped. "This is big, Francis! It's huge! We have to speak out. We have to show that those _places_ they set up happened, and will. Not. Happen. Again!"

England and France exchanged glances. No petty bickering, or arguing. It was the final days, and they were mostly beyond that. At least this early in the morning. No, it was just glances. America was so _young_ sometimes. It was almost embarrassing.

At long last, Sweden sat down, awkwardly bending legs and crouching over the plate that Canada had vainly tried to save through longing glances and pointed throat clearing. Defeated, the second largest country on the earth sighed, and wrenched Romano's head back around to finish attaching the plaster. As usual, the explosive nation did not notice this particular manhandling, which made Alfred grin into his weak coffee. His brother was the best for smoothing over awkward conversations.

Over seven horrible silent minutes later, a cry echoed up the steps. Alfred and Romano both jumped to their feet. Alfred could guess what sent the Southern Italy scrambling for the stairs, given that it was his little brother crying in the dark. Alfred was on his heels, as he had been the one to convince everyone that using Feliciano was a good idea.

"Hoi! Matt, he might be hurt," Alfred dashed after Romano's long boots, hoping that Canada kept up.

The first two piled down the stairs in a headlong rush that threatened to split Alfred's chin as well as the Italian one. The sound of wailing echoed sadly down the corner. Noise bounced around them in a cacophony, words like 'please,' 'why,' 'fair,' 'tried,' 'not,' 'I,' 'everything,' 'forgive,' and 'you' snapping in the nation's faces. As Alfred pounded along, all he could think was that when Romano killed him for placing Veneziano in this situation, he was going to be glad because the noise had stopped.

They skidded to a halt before the three final cells. In the wall hugging cell, Prussia, in an undershirt and dirty gray pants, was beating his head against the iron bars of his door. The regular thwok, thwok drowned in Northern Italy's yells, coming from the open door of the cell two over from Prussia.

Bandaged and bruised, Italy was now sobbing on the unconscious Germany's chest. The nation had not even moved, or perhaps he had only woken up enough to do something to set this off, and then return to the coma where, even if the outside world had gone to hell in a hand basket, the inner one was at least blank.

This had been a _horrible_ idea, Alfred realized, and he, like any self-respecting hero, leaped into action to pull Veneziano from the body of Germany. This coincided with a similar brisk stride from Romano, and the two found themselves in a heap on the floor.

Matt, stepped over the two, one of whom had started to swear angrily, adding to the complete noise. He quite easily pulled the screaming Italy off Germany, ignoring the tiny fists pounding the air, his arms, and at one point, his cheek.

"America! Put me down! I still haven't—I still—I _promise_ I'll make him all better! I PROMISE!"

"Shut up, you stupid kid," Romano shouted from the floor, finally untangling himself from America. He lunged upright, fist swinging to administer a silencing punch. His little brother's fist connected with his nose coming from the opposite direction, and Romano yelped, clutching at his face, even as Italy looked around in shock, wringing his hands.

"Veee! I didn't mean to. Really. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to get in the way. I'm sorry, Romano!"

Tears streaming, and red welling wetly at the chinks in his fingers, Romano kept his hand to his face, muttering: "Stupid crybaby."

America, still on the floor, signaled to Canada. "C'mon, we'd better get them out of here."

Veneziano looked at the sprawled man in consternation. "But—ve? If you're down there, how are you holding me up?" he risked a glance over his shoulder, his eyes going wide. "There are _two_ Americas?"

Over Matt's protest that he was Canada, Romano tried to scoff through his bleeding nose. "No, stupid! That's the other one. You know, the one who helped invade us in '43?"

"England?" Feliciano tried, peering to see if the eyebrows had been waxed.

Romano rolled his eyes. "No, Australia! Don't you ever pay attention?"

The violet eyes protected by glass ovals narrowed in annoyance. From the hall, Alfred caught the end of a dry, rasping laugh. "C'mon, Matt," he said, before Canada could lose his temper. "These two need to be patched up." Heaving himself to his feet, Alfred winced at the wheezy laugh that was still reverberating angrily around his skull. "And we should probably see if Prussia's alright," he muttered unwillingly.

Good nations cared for their prisoners, and treated them properly.

Romano snorted. "Potato bastard two? Why bother? He's dead already. He just forgot to disappear."

"For someone who should have disappeared already he managed to cause enough damage," Matt snapped, dragging Northern Italy into the hallway.

He was still angry over the mistakes with his name, Alfred guessed. There was the high strung note of a tight tension execution wire in Canada's voice. The others ignored it, but Alfred made a mental note to keep Canada just on cooking duty until he had time to calm down.

Going back through the door, Alfred was careful to let Romano go ahead of him. A hero did not squish his erstwhile friends into oblivion twice in the span of two minutes. Admittedly, he was not sure where he stood with the Italies. He had seen what they had done to their boss, and that was going to haunt him for some time to come. They couldn't just go around executing vigilante violence on people. That was not worthy of a hero. There was no justice in dark mobs at night. He should know.

In the hallway, Matt had put Veneziano in the care of his brother, as he checked the brown haired nation for any more injuries than he had already patched up. Romano, now that he had identified Matt as Australia, was refusing to allow 'the koala loving bastard' to touch his bleeding nose, and his younger brother was getting distressed at each mention of the injury. Alfred rubbed his temples, as Matt finally threw up his hands in disgust, and turned to the other potentially injured nation, who was locked behind stout iron bars. America could see a rusty red sluggishly flowing over mottled bruising granting some color to the freak's skin.

"Alfred?" Matt asked, requesting back up, should the old nation take advantage of his opening the door.

Standing firmly, his blue eyes glaring at Prussia, Alfred nodded.

Prussia chuckled, and leaned one boney elbow on the rectangle of the lock, so he could rest his chin on the back of one scarred hand, just like a neighbor looking over a wall into someone's garden. By force of the handcuffs, his other hand dangled obscenely by his heart. "What? You think I'm going to suddenly snap and attack you, Kaninchen [11]?"

Matt muttered something about remembering Normandy, which made Alfred feel confused. Had Canada even been there? He'd won the day there. Of that he was sure. Matt couldn't have been part of that. Alfred certainly would have remembered the presence of his own brother—

_Alfred laughed drunkenly, feeling as though his eyeballs were burning. Another American arm brought up a gun._

"_Christ, Alfred! They're trying to defect!" Matt shrieked _[12]_.  
_

_Prussia, who had once towered over him, slapping him around a training field with the flat of his sword, swayed. Another report. Another man fell. The land swum before Alfred's eyes. His glasses had gotten knocked off at some point and he had yet to find them. He stared at Prussia, who grinned in bitter understanding that Canada did not have. The color from his eyes seemed to be leaking all over his face._

"_Alfred! Stop your men! Stop them!"_

"_They didn't stop theirs."_

"_Alfred! Alfred! This isn't—,"_

"_What? It isn't heroic? What's so heroic about landmines and barbed wire, and snipers, and gut, and brain, and faces grinning at you, and people's arms, and limbs and the heads blown open!"_

_Prussia laughed. It bubbled up around Alfred, making him remember harsh winter nights, and beer, and Francis, and England. God, he could remember evenings on the porch. The smell of a wet dog lingering in summer heat. Ringing out over a spring rain, a little sister laughed, and dumped mud in her brother's hair. Mothers baking all the special meals of the year. Everything that his dead men would never get to experience again, and he would because he was their nation, and nations survived all that, and were able to enjoy it, which was not fair, as that was what the people had made for themselves, so why couldn't the sons and brothers and fathers all get back up again?_

_He just wanted to erase Prussia. Right now._

"_He can't hear you, whatsyername."_

"_It's Canada! And shut up! Alfred! Listen to me!"_

_Another shot. Suddenly, Alfred felt Matt's hands around his wrist, and then his arm was forced behind his back. Up and up. Higher and higher. It was going to hurt once he started feeling things again. A fierce growl that reminded everyone present that polar bears were the most dangerous thing in their environment._

"_America. Get your troops under control. These Germans are _defecting_. You do not kill people who have information that you need," Matt hissed in his ear. "I will find your glasses. You turn the prisoners over to me and Arthur. We will take it from there."_

_A low whistle from somewhere interrupted the silence in his brain as the landscape around him suddenly solidified. Was Matt restraining him? When had that happened? Where _were_ his glasses?_

"_You know, I've got some of yours, Kanada," Prussia taunted over the roaring in Alfred's ears _[13]_._

"_I know. I'll be there when you shoot them, too."_

—No . Mattie had not been at Normandy. What was Alfred thinking? His brother should never see him like that. It was Chicago crazy, blown out of proportion, and he did not want anyone he counted on to see that side. Really, he did not want anyone to see that side.

Which was probably why Romano was refusing to let Veneziano talk about how sorry he was for having punched his brother. Indeed, as he listened to the two Italies, Alfred had to keep himself from breaking into a real smile. He was facing Prussia, the deranged, who just might attack Matt, as the good-hearted man played the ministering angel. Alfred could not let himself be distracted by how great it was to see the two Europeans act the way real brothers should.

Not to mention that Romano apparently was hyper aware when his actions caused others happiness [14], as he shifted his glare from his brother to Alfred. "What is it, fatty bastard? If you're even thinking anything perverted I'll break your shins."

That brought Alfred up short. "Wait. What? Perverted? Heroes don't think anything perverse, I'll have you know! It's just nice seeing two brothers helping each other after everything that's happened, you know?"

"I'm not helping him!" Romano shoved his younger sibling from the clinging hug that Veneziano had established with both hands, smearing blood on the bandages holding Northern Italy's side together.

Veneziano, still feeling wobbly, and useless, fetched up against the wall with a sniffling sob. "But—But America was _right_, Lovi. It's nice to see people helping each other like Gil-nii-san and Australia."

That made Alfred swing back to glare at Prussia, who had practically collapsed against the bars in silent laughter, before glaring up at Matt, who had a ferocious scowl on his face, as he tightened the white cloth he was wrapping around the silver head. "Hey! That's _my_ skull you're crushing, Kanada."

"It's Canada," Matt repeated, staring angrily at the little Italy, before his face fell, and he looked down at Prussia. "Wait. Oh! I'm so sorry. I'll fix that. I'm really sorry. I forgot I had the bandage in my hands. I have to apologize. I didn't mean to hurt you. Er, that time, anyway. I'm very, very sorry."

Romano snorted. "What for? Fixing him up so that he can be in perfect health so he can watch the winners dismember his brother?"

Alfred swung back to Romano, his eyes wide with innocence that crumbled under acidic experience. "W-we're not going to _dismember_ Germany."

South Italy's smirk was just a shade too knowing. "Oh? Is that not _heroic_? You're going to partition him. You don't need to lie to us. Potato bastard is going to get what he deserves."

Prussia suddenly threw himself against the bars, snarling. "You backstabbing little bitch! Ludwig protected you, and you couldn't wait to fuck him over as soon as you could. Hell, I'll bet you offered yourself to the precious Allies as soon as they landed. Rolling on your back like a slut as soon as big cheerful hero looked your way. You've been looking after his vital regions since the twenties [15]!"

Matt yanked hard on the bandage, pulling the crazed man away, just as Romano lunged for the door. Alfred stepped in the way, holding his hands out. Romano screeched something about potato bastards and sucking wurst. Alfred listened with only half an ear. Over Romano's shoulder Veneziano had fallen to his knees, large tears slipping from his eyes. This had been the worst idea he had ever had—he should have known that as soon as Arthur said it might work he was in trouble.

"Matt?" Alfred tried to call above the furious Italian torrent. "I'm going to take these two upstairs. Join us when—,"

Matt held up open palms to indicate that he had finished securing the bandage. Unfortunately, this meant that he was no longer restraining the enemy, and Prussia thudded against the door to his cell once more, trying to get at Romano.

Alfred quickly hustled the angry Italian toward the stairs, picking up his brother on the way with one hand. He stared back, only to see Canada unlocking the door, slipping through, and closing it again carefully. The click of the key in the lock echoed above the string of profanity and sobs coming from the southern nations. Alfred breathed a sigh of relief, propelling his captives forcibly up the stairs.

At the top, he was met by disinterested green, and an interrogating ice blue set that countered the fevered warmth of the final pair of blue. Arthur moved first, stretching, his tattered leisure book falling to one side.

"Good. The frog was planning on sending out a search party. What happened?"

Alfred didn't meet those eyes. Nor did he admit to anything. Especially not the mistake that sending the Italian down to try to revive Germany had been. "Northern Italy had no luck, and then Prussia got smart with Southern Italy."

Francis chuckled, walking over to the group of three. The chuckle was not nice. "Gilbert would. He is so filthy minded when his frérot is in _real_ trouble. Oh well, his lesson will come in time. Perhaps he actually will dissolve as he is supposed to," Francis perked up. "Ah, Alfred, mon cher, we have put you to too much trouble. Let me take those petits garçons from your strong arms."

"Fuck off you debosciati francese [16]," Southern Italy growled, still trying to struggle out of Alfred's grip.

Sweden stood once more, his expression stating that no-one would get in his way this time. "'M goin' t' Tino."

From behind Alfred, a throat was cleared. "Ah, probably not this very instant?"

Sweden loomed. His shoulders alone deserved shadowed mists, given the majesty of his intimidation. Alfred thought that he was going to be squashed by the hand reaching for the long truncheon. Behind him the voice piped up again: "He's sleeping just now. It _was_ a bit of a journey to get here."

Sweden continued looming for a second, and then something made him slump a little. "'M goin' out."

"Careful, cher," Francis warned, practically purring as he sidled closer to the large nation who, Alfred could not help noticing, flinched slightly in disgust. "La Russie and his charming cadet are out there. Although, in all fairness, I'm not certain if our ally knows that the angel dogged his footsteps. Is something the matter, Angleterre?"

Alfred had to agree, once he managed to tear his eyes from Sweden, that Arthur looked ill. More ill than he did on Alfred's birthday, even. Or perhaps it was not the same kind of illness. Had he eaten something unusually rotten? But all that would have been objectionable to his pallet from their breakfast was the coffee, and Alfred had seen him drink that even while complaining.

"Nothing, Frog," the island nation snapped, meeting Alfred's eyes. They both turned away blushing in shame.

Heroes don't do this, Alfred thought mournfully. We both know what is going to happen. Shouldn't one of us stop it?

Distracting himself, he smiled widely at France. "Sorry, but I think I'll take Northern Italy to bed. He needs some rest."

Not even noticing the way Francis had to restrain himself from making a comment in rejoinder to his first statement, Alfred ploughed away. Anything to get out of the hallway and Arthur. They both knew, of course. They had agreed. But no one else had to know. Not yet. _Maybe not ever_. Heading quickly to the left hallway, he closed a door only held in its frame with hope and a bit of rust where a nail had once been.

At last, he could drop Romano. Veneziano clung unhappily to Alfred's side, until Matt, who had followed, much to Alfred's surprise, disentangled him. Romano sneered at the two continental thirds. Alfred found himself wanting to wipe that expression off the arrogant face. Still, all he really wanted now was a handy wall, and five minutes to arrange his head. Five minutes.

Eventually, those five minutes lapsed into fifteen, and all four had sort of slid into a more horizontal position. That was the only conclusion that Alfred could reach. Last he recalled, they were all standing, with various expressions disdain and unhappy tiredness, and then they were all leaning against the walls, or stretched out on the floor. A gentle slide must have occurred somewhere in there.

Looking over, Alfred met Matt's eyes. Canada had the bruised Veneziano sucking his thumb in his lap. Alfred focused on the bandages on the European's side, and the arm stuck in its sling. Had they done that to him? Had it been his planes? Why hadn't Romano at least spoken up? Switzerland certainly did when Alfred made a mistake like that. Alfred had never come so close to short sudden death before in his life. If the rumors were true, and the deranged hermit had taught Austria how to fight, why did the silk clad nation _suck_ so badly?

And had those wounds been him, flying overhead, pacifying things?

Because no matter what any of the Europeans said, Europe just looked like Europe to Alfred, especially through a bomber's sight. He could not tell what river or mountain belonged in what nation. Weren't they all alike? And why did they get so angry at him, anyway? None of them knew his states. A few knew the important cities. But they wouldn't be able to tell his states apart even with a road map. The west would be a jumbled mess of blocks to them, until they saw California, who was tall—among states that averaged five apples in height, although he blamed the New England states for bringing the average down, personally—and tan, and Europeans could remember her. But the Europeans, even Arthur, who had many painful memories buried with those states, could not tell the rest apart (and anyway, Vermont thought it was funny to pretend to be all of New England, until it managed to annoy both Massachusetts and New Hampshire enough that the big brother and sister pair attacked with snowballs, which inevitably lead to a small tussle, and Vermont stealing everyone's wallets, before threatening to succeed to Canada, until it was reminded that it hated French Canadians and Quebec's house would suddenly become a lot closer [17]).

Alone in a stupid German city, on land that was not his, Alfred suddenly wanted to cry.

"Hey?" Matt asked, knowing from the rare frown on Alfred's face that something had gone wrong. "What is it?"

Alfred tried to smile at his brother. "Just thinking about Vermont, of all the weird things. Could you imagine Francis trying to talk to it? Or any of them trying to tell it apart from New Hampshire. They'd fail, and then be looking for their ankles. They, they—I want to be _home_, Matt. They're so messed up here."

Matt, who had been stuck with England since 1939, just nodded. He knew, and Alfred was glad that he wasn't lecturing about America's lack of responsibility for not joining as soon as possible. That was one thing Alfred was spared. He did not want to have to explain how he hated this place, and had hated it since the mustard gas and muddy death in the first war. How each time he came back, the countries were just a bit more twisted, and still thought themselves so much better.

They waited again, for some minutes, as Alfred let the feeling wash over him and through him. Then the homesickness left, taking with it cheery memories of the states being themselves. He continued to look at Italy, sleeping uneasily in Canada's lap. "Why's he still wounded, Matt?" America asked eventually.

Canada shrugged.

"Was it one of my, er, geographically challenged raids? I have been on a few recent ones. So has Arthur."

Matt smiled bitterly, a smile saying that he knew more about those raids than either of them wanted to admit. "No. He's had these since he fell."

"Germany left them," Romano snapped from somewhere near Alfred's feet, making the American jump in surprise.

Recovering his breath, Alfred hoped that Romano had not heard the earlier conversation with Matt. "Jeeze, Italy Romano, I thought you were asleep."

Romano snorted, pillowing his head with his hands as he looked at the blank stucco ceiling. "Hah. Like anyone could with you getting all faggy and weepy on Australia's shoulder."

Alfred shook his head at Matt, who he noticed stealthily drawing back a combat boot to kick Southern Italy. Man, Matt was taking the implications that he was Australia personally today. Usually he just ignored it when Francis could not remember his name, or Arthur took to calling him "Commonwealth!" in defense.

As a distraction, Alfred turned his mind back to Italy's wounds. "Germany did this?"

Snarling Romano answered contemptuously. "Yeah. Feli's so fucking weak, he can't even heal them," Alfred got the feeling that Romano was not speaking about the lack of leadership Italy was undergoing. Feliciano _the person_ was too weak to heal his scars. And that scared Romano. "You'd never think that he used to control the best merchant marine on the Mediterranean. That the Arsenallotti were valued in every single empire as the best ship builders the world knew. That he grew up with Milano politics all around his stupid retard ears [18]. That-That—shit. I sound like him when he's in maudlin mode."

"It's interesting," Matt ventured.

Romano lifted a dismissive, defiant finger toward the ceiling. "No, it's not. The shit's fucking boring. Potato bastard's got it coming to him, though. That's all I gotta say. He's gonna pay for _everything_ he did to us."

Alfred, thinking of trucks and ships heading east, and Germans defecting because they had only signed up to fight Russians, suddenly felt anger. Who was Romano to make damn judgments like that? "Romano, did you know about his camps?"

Canada stiffened next to him.

Romano was quiet for a moment, and then: "Me ne frego [19], America! I was _Axis_, remember? You think when you've got three potato bastards, your own idiot of a brother and friggin' Ivan the violently terrible leaning over you the whole time, you're gonna argue too loudly? I did my best to see to it that they weren't too badly off. It never was Poland or Austria's little tours of horror. Hell, when the potatoes were attacking Feli, and gonna grab and gas the whole lot of them, my people got them to safety! They were just humans, anyway."

America, almost ready to let things go as too complicated and dark for a hero to handle without a big flashlight, felt punched by the last few words. "They? Nobody is _just_ human. They were your people. How—,"

Romano sat up, his eyes burning. Sticking his nose in the air, looking particularly like Arthur, Alfred thought with a roll of anger, he crossed his arms. "You're so _young_, and such a naïve bastard. How many civil wars have you had? Have you seen your fourth century yet? I've seen more humans come and go in horrible ways that you ever will. I've been to your place, America. You can't even keep track of half of your people. And I've noticed that the ones you do remember tend to be potatoes, and only the ones who've been there as long as the damn eyebrows. You make me sick, going on about ideals, and idiocy. You've infected Feli with it, too, making him even more confused."

"I haven't stuck any of mine in—," the lie died even before Romano could begin to shred it.

"Sure you have! Genocide's a fucking ugly word, America, but you'd know all about that. Wasn't there a time when you were browner than me? You, too, Australia, thinking you're so innocent and perfect. And here you go judging us, saying from on high that there will be justice. Fuck justice. You can have it, if you want it. I'll take fucking vendetta. Judge me if you dare! You've done the same thing to your humans. Me ne frego."

Alfred swallowed, wanting to hide from the angry Italian. He wanted to curl up in shame around the huge secrets like the White Russians heading back to Russia and the execution that they knew awaited them. Like all the times he had been unkind to his minorities. Like every time he had ever allowed his bosses agree with Germany's boss. Like the monster he let war turn him into. He hated Europe for throwing this all back in his face. For reminding him that he was the shittiest hero on the planet.

* * *

Prussia adjusted the snug bandage about his forehead once again when a shadow cut across what little light was left in the damp stone box he had been given. Looking up, he groaned. He should have been expecting this visit. The accidental side trip of the Italian party had been a nice surprise. This wasn't.

Denmark grinned down at the pale nation. "Hej Preussen. Haven't seen you since—well, haven't seen you for a while. I only got in last night."

Okay, they were playing friendly? Gilbert could play friendly. "Hallo, Dänemark. I wish I could say this was unexpected. You do love surprising people, don't you?"

"Yup. C'mon, _Gil_," the way the name rolled off Denmark's tongue made Prussia grit his teeth. No one should be that familiar with his human name, aside from Francis and Antonio, but they did not count. West could have used it as well, but he never did. Denmark was near the top of the list of people who should not have access to Prussia's human name like that, "you should get up to greet me."

Since Prussia was lying on his bare cot, and quite liked that position, thank you, he stuck a finger in the air. "Maybe I'm not a big fan of getting my face flattened."

Denmark chuckled. "Oh, Preussen. That won't save you. I have a key."

Prussia laughed wheezily. "Doesn't everyone?"

"Mmm?" from the scrapings that he heard, Gilbert suspected that Denmark was trying to make the sticky lock unlock.

Planning carefully, the sheet white man pushed himself up on his elbows. He was starved, hand cuffed, and his ankles also had iron cuffs wrapping around them. He had been about to ask the blonde Canada for something to put between his skin and the raw rubbing iron, but that would have meant looking like a pansy in front of the traitorous, disloyal Romano, which was not on the list of geil. So he had accepted the head bandage—another sign of pansiness, but he _had_ tried to beat his own head in, out of sheer frustration as Feliciano screamed everything that Prussia could not, because he hadn't _seen _Ludwig for days—and let the medic leave. Well, it was better than Vash Zwingli as your resident physician.

Right, plan. So, he was at a disadvantage, even though Denmark was pretty hollow, as well, and Prussia knew where a lot of his wounds were hiding. If he was quick, Prussia could knock Denmark down, and bolt for the exit to the wine cellar before anyone noticed. Then he would—his plan trailed off here in a morass of confusion, but it was a good plan, and he could improvise in any situation. He was Prussia, and he was awesome.

However, this only worked if Denmark was alone. Prussia craned his neck, peering at the dim shapes. A round sailor's hat caught his eye, and he felt his face go cold from blood loss. Oh Scheiße. Norwegen. Of course Denmark would drag him along. This was going to hurt. A lot. If Prussia was very lucky, they wouldn't try to partition his non-existent nation between the two.

He rested against the thin pallet once again, trying to get comfortable. "Oh, just thinking everyone has keys. I managed to snatch America's this morning, but Canada made me give it to him."

Prussia was a little surprised by the way the mention of Canada forced the large country to halt for a moment, looking confused. At some point, Prussia vowed, he was going to discover the secret to that invisibility field that Canada projected. One, it was useful, and two, the sheer power of it scared the living daylights out of Prussia. Right now, however, he could have used it, because while Denmark fussed with an unfamiliar lock and key in the dark, Norway's bottom of the sea rift eyes were on him. Nations know when they are being watched.

Norway wasn't even taller than Ludwig. He was not the type to be called intimidating, and indeed, when Prussia had been venting his frustration about that pathetic(ly good at killing Ludwig's people) resistance, there had been no second thoughts. Slide the knife in, make it twist, make it turn, ask the question again. Antonio had taught him that. Now, however, that chilly, unconcerned stare had Gilbert worried.

The door creaked as it swung open, and Denmark stepped through. On the bed, Gilbert grinned weakly. "Please remember that I bruise easily."

"Oh, I will, Preussen."

The first punch _hurt_. It ran like electricity down his spine, and that was a miracle, since it had been his head that Denmark had hit. Prussia felt the left side of his face ballooning, as Denmark crawled onto the bunk, straddling Prussia's shins. That just gave the man better leverage and angle for raining down blows on the hunger skinny frame.

Pain happened. It happened a lot. It happened thoroughly. But it was honest pain. It wasn't the cruel pain of piano wire and forced drownings. Prussia was glad for that. At some point they were going to let Francis in on him, and then the _real_ fun would begin. Prussia had not been nice. Part of it had been orders, part of it had just been the sheer thrill of turning everything they had learned together on his old friend—It was a decent fucking pay back for Napoleon, Prussia had thought. So Gilber had used all his friends had given him. From Antonio how to poison the mind so that the victim did not know what the color of the sky was, unless you told them. Francis had brought him up in the ways of the body. But France was not happy about Vichy. Especially the part where Prussia had presented Francis to Ludwig, trussed up, and Ludwig went red, and then rejected the gift—which had only added insult to injury.

Yeah, Denmark could have done worse, and legitimately probably should have. Instead, he repeatedly punched Prussia for a long time. IT _HURT._ But that was curable. All of Denmark's neighbors were used to the way the old Viking dealt with problems. Norway, watching from the shadows, worried Gilbert each time he came out of his daze. Gilbert had _no_ idea how Norway went about achieving revenge.

Then Denmark sucked a knuckle, and the rhythm broke for certain this time. "That'll do," he commented reflectively, looking down at Prussia, a smile hovering just on the corner of his expression. "Too bad there wasn't a battlefield between us, huh?"

Gilbert just panted, thinking that had there been a battle, and he was doomed to be defeated—not that he ever would have. He was a military _genius—_a lot worse would have happened. Gilbert unresisting, and clad in irons wasn't ever going to excite the Dane's blood lust, and more ancient instincts.

Denmark, not caring about the answer particularly, climbed off the prone form. He saluted, and strolled into the shadowy corridor, lit down at this end by greens and blacks leeching to browns. Gilbert, though a swelling eye, could just see the man turn in profile. "Norge?"

But the owner of the sea blue eyes slipped into the room with the beaten Prussia. Gilbert waited. Norway remained silent. Seconds crawled by. Still Gilbert waited for the violence. None came.

"All right, what are you going to do?" the warrior nation asked combativly. If he could have moved his upper arms, he would have crossed them. "'Cause if you're just gonna be creepy, Ivan's better at it than you, so you might as well help me up, and unlock Lutz's cell, or at least just tell me how he's doing."

Norway bent over, so his soft-still-a-boy's-mouth was tickling Prussia's earlobe. "Just watching. I've considered it for a long time, but as you are just an ex-nation, any harm I inflict on you will not be replicated in your land, and therefore it will not make you feel guilty enough for what you have done. So, I will watch. Just as you will watch as France, England, America, and Russia divide your brother before your eyes. What was it you said: 'big brothers are supposed to protect the little brothers'? Or was it 'do not get attached'?" Norway chuckled grimly. "Tell me, have you followed the advice that you gave to little Hannover?"

And then he reached over, and pressed on Prussia's side, which was how Gilbert discovered that Denmark had broken a rib.

When the period of black out agony had passed, the Scandinavians were gone. The echoes of Gilbert's screaming had also died enough so that he could hear, up the passage, Feliks' familiar twang. The distressed edge to it was such as a strong reminder that Prussia was brought back to well before the 1800s, and had to crawl panting out of the sewers of memory.

The slap of boots against slick flags filled his ears. This was not the best circumstance of the day. The only person who he wanted to see was Ludwig, so he would at least know if the fragile idiot was all right. If he was going to expand this definition to people who he did not not-want to see, then he would not object to another visit from Canada, preferably involving morphine, or something that England had pumped China full of in times past. But someone with medicine, or something to help make this better.

Poland was not even on the list of the partially-tolerated. They had too much history together. Poland was like an Eastern equivalent to France, only without the fun bits where they got drunk together, and enjoyed each other's company. However, contact from the world was still contact, and he had forgotten to ask most of his visitors today, so Gilbert tried to get up. He fell off his bunk with a crash that was loud enough to pause Poland in his headlong flight.

Peering into the dim cell, the long-haired nation caught Gilbert's pale shape easily. "Prussia. If I cared, I'd want to know why you were on the floor, but I don't, so don't start. I need the exit to this damned place, so if you know, make it snappy."

Wriggling on his stomach produced some horrifying sensations, and Gilbert stopped, only to look up at Feliks. "Hey, look I have an excuse to be a bitch. I can barely move. What's got your panties in a bunch?"

"I'm leaving," Poland replied, looking around for an exit.

Feeling his only lead slipping away, Gilbert tried to literally lunge after it. He ended up in the bottom corner of the cell door, sweating from the effort of staying conscious around the broken rib. "C'mon, Feliks. I'll tell you whatever you want. Just please. Please do me this one favor."

Feliks tried to calibrate his expression to bore into Gilbert. It did not quite work out, because Prussia eyelids were fluttering shut, and snapping open rapidly, like someone trying to stay awake. God, when Ivan got his hands on this one—_I repeat, fuck Yalta—_Prussia would willingly go into a state of dissolution."Like, what kind of favor?"

Gilbert licked his lips, wondering how to say it, now that he was huddled at Poland's feet. This was not entirely unprecedented, but he had never been this helpless before, and usually it was the other way around. "Ludwig. They haven't let me see him since he was brought in. I don't know what's happened with him, other than it made Feli very unhappy. Just tell me. P-p-p—," it was hard to say, especially to Poland, but he had to, "—p-please."

"Did the great Gilbert Beilschmidt just ask for something? Politely?" Feliks tittered, making irritation run up Prussia's spine. "The world might stop spinning. But I need directions out of here, Prusy."

Gilbert growled in the back of his throat. "You _know_ how I feel about your human language and my name."

"Ah-ah," Poland wagged a disciplinary finger. "I'm the one granting you a favor. I would be careful how you speak to me. Now, the directions."

"Tell me what's happening with Ludwig first," the former nation snapped.

Poland put the wagging finger to his lips in mock concern. "Don't you _trust_ me, Prusy?"

Gilbert caught the grim light in the conversation. His expression slid into ruefully bitter. "No more than you do, me. But if this were Toris, I wouldn't make you dance for your news like this. Well, maybe only a bit. I am a bastard," he grinned, stealing the description from Feliks.

Poland nodded. He leaned against the bars. "So—that thing about Toris, can I get your co-operation on that some time in the future?"

Gilbert blinked. "What? You think I've got a future?"

Feliks laughed shortly. "Your buddy Francis was gloating about how you and your brother were going to be punished. He mentioned that Ivan had a claim on all the land that he got before the Elbe. Trying to reassure me that Ivan would get Berlin, I think. But Francis forgot about everyone in between Ivan and the Elbe."

Shared understanding that they had not known since 1657 danced between them. Gilbert whistled. "Schieße. Your allies suck, Polska."

"They always have, Preußen. I think we'll be seeing a lot of each other, if you have the balls to keep Lugwig safe," Poland's dismissive gesture suggested that he did not think Gilbert had balls at all.

Gilbert smiled wanly, and pressed against the bars, the iron seeming to be the only solid thing in his life. Poland looked down at Prussia, shaking his head over the sheer mess he had gotten into this time.

* * *

**Footnotes and Annotations**

* * *

[1] - As a neutral power stuck in a place remote enough that it would have been annoying to invade, Sweden still had its work cut out avoiding the German expansion policies. One of the major concessions that it had to make to Nazi Germany was trading in iron ore, which went into the military war machine of the Axis. There are many who debate whether Sweden should have done this, as well as all of the other political dancing that Sweden did in order to maintain neutrality and peace for its people. Some claim that the iron was not a large factor, and others claim that the lack of Swedish ore could have shut down the Wehrmacht.

[2] - Our friendly DNA test/excavation has not happened yet, so no one really knows.

[3] - 'Finland' in Russian. Pronounced Finlyandiya.

[4] - 'Sweden' in Russian. Pronounced Shvetstiya.

[5] - 'Little knife' in Russian. Pronounced nozhichek. I think. I don't know if I should trust the translator on this. Cyrillic is not an alphabet that I am familiar with, even if I had basic competency with Russian, which I don't.

[6] - Similar to the Allied 'Loose Lips Sink Ships' posters, in Sweden used the image of a yellow and blue tiger with the caption 'En svensk tiger' which could mean 'Swedish tiger' or 'A Swede keeps his mouth shut.' I still prefer lion imagery for Berwald, given how interested he is in having a family around him, but there are some definite parallels.

[7] - Iceland's act of Union with Denmark expired in 1943, and they elected their first president in 1944, so technically Iceland has only had its own government for a year. However, in 1940, when Germany occupied Denmark, Iceland decided to take care of its foreign affairs, and maintain neutrality. A month later Britain occupied the country, and in 1941, the then neutral America took the English soldiers' place to free up troops. Perhaps it would be fairer for Denmark to say that Iceland had managed pretty well on its own for five years, but you know those Nordic countries. If they aren't fiercely declaring their independence, then they're trying to force each other to be dependent on them.

[8] - And then the Cod War happened with England. This, rather like the creation of Sealand, which I still have difficulty taking seriously, is one of those things that you should just Google for yourself, then think about the level of sanity in international relations, and feel worried that _Hetalia_ is not as far off base as we might want it to be.

[9] - A custom made Polish submachine gun produced in occupied Poland for the Polish resistance. Unlike the AVS-36 that Belarus has become attached to, this was actually a good and efficient weapon that could be produced in a country that was under occupation for the entirety of the war. I almost thought about giving Feliks a British Sten, given the fact that he would have been there in his capacity as the Polish Government in London, but Resistance!Poland is not going to be left out of matters. And the Błyskawica is pretty darn epic, just like Poland.

[10] - Here is where the American view of history gets a little dicey, folks. Alfred loves the resistance. They were the coolest heroes ever. However, when people talk about France and WWII in history class, they start getting nervous about the way that France treated the subjects that it saw as collaborators, particularly the women who were forced to provide sexual comfort for German soldiers. One can argue about the definition of 'forced' if they want, and others point out that some chose to use their ignominious positions to spy, while others did not, and simply lived the lives of kept women, while Germans were off being murderous bastards, and destroying France. Either way, once France regained independence, it threw itself into culturally rejecting anything to do with Germany, particularly the Prussian side of Germany. Alfred is a little leery of that, because good heroes should be above that sort of thing, and France can be horrible when it wants to be.

[11] - Bunny rabbit in German. Much as I love 'Birdie,' Prussia doesn't know Canada all that well. Just enough to try out pet names to irritate him. Plus, 'Kanada Kaninchen' has some very nice alliterative properties.

[12] - A significant portion of the German Army stationed in Normandy had signed up to fight the Russians on the Eastern front, even though that was a bloody Hell hole of its own right. After the Allies won D-Day, these mainly Eastern/Prussian Germans defected to the Allied side. Unfortunately, nothing is neat and nice like that, and there were some nasty executions. Yay, for war crimes.

[13] - In another show of messy executions and war crimes associated with D-Day, some of the escaping Germans had rounded up 20 Canadian POWs, and forced marched them to a barn in the French country side, where the Germans shot the prisoners, because no one needs 20 odd Canadians slowing them down. Headcannon says that nations often have to 'witness' what their humans do to each other, much in the same way DEATH does on Terry Pratchett's Discworld. They don't need to be there for every detail, but for some of them. Normally Ludwig would be there, but he wouldn't be able to remember that he had captured Canadian troops, so it's up to Prussia.

[14] - Romano says that you would be too, if you had to worry about being glomped by a Spanish pervert any time he was feeling happy.

[15] - Again, I must apologize, as headcannon has intruded. I can't imagine that Romano didn't once follow his people over to America to see what all the noise was about, especially during the twenties, when there wasn't much to do in Southern Italy, but hope that the weather did what it was supposed to do, and that you didn't starve. You could make _money_ in America. Long live prohibition!

[16] - I believe that this means 'debauched Frenchman' in Italian. Lovino can be quite literary when he wants to be.

[17] - I chose Vermont because it's one of the few states on the Canadian border that I know well, and it has a rather hilarious history. Basically, after the revolution New York (which is not culturally part of New England, guys. It's one of the Industrial States), and New Hampshire started fighting over the land that lay between their newly minted states. They both wrote out land deeds for the same territory, and then sent out settlers with guns to settle matters. Unfortunately, when they reached the area, they discovered that the bandits/land based privateers who had been living there since the Revolution and the local hicks who already had farms on the land, and had no intention of paying taxes, especially not twice over, had taken over the disputed territory, and were not going to pay for the deed. There were some nasty, short battles, and New York and New Hampshire both tried to get Washington on their side. The compromise that ended up happening was that the disputed land became its own state-the first non-colony state, so hurrah for it. Basically, Vermont was settled by land thieves, and to my mind has a habit of stealing the neighbors wallets whenever it has a chance. Vermont currently survives by stealing money from tourists, using a new form of theft called 'marketing.' Most of the tourists are French Canadians, who many Vermonters hate with a passion, because they are obnoxious, rude, and tourist-like. However, if you can't get rid of them, you might as well rob them blind as they try to buy your arts and crafts, such as maple syrup. Finally, despite the dislike of French Canadians the successonist movement in Vermont (small as it might be) is serious. They also want to take Western Massachussetts with them once they succeed, I hear.

[18] - Much as I love Chibitalia, I have to wonder how Feliciano is the innocent one of the pair, given what Milan alone has gone through. And Venice is a kettle of worms that someone else can got through.

[19] - I don't care/give a damn. This was a Fascist motto.

* * *

Thank you very much for reading. How are the characters being portrayed? I'm nervous with Feliks, I'll admit.

~ MF


	2. That Which is Broken Hearted

**Author's Note**: It is not _necessary_ to have read the Thirty Years' War fics that I have written, but "May, 1612" and "October, 1698" bracket and are contextualized by _The Wolf and Lion_ and the interactions of Prussia, Norway and Denmark in "September, 1721" are closely associated with _Sunlight Burning_ and _Cold Sea_. I'm terribly sorry, especially as _Sunlight Burning_ is one of the grimmest things that I've written. "January 1814" and "February 1814" also benefit from having read _Cold Sea_ and _The Wolf and Lion_. Anyway, should anyone have any questions about the further historical context of those three sections, the answers can probably be found in what I've already written.

The first section was supposed to be from Feliks' perspective. It really was. But Toris pulled a Canada and stole it without my noticing. Poland fans will have to wait a little longer for me to actually get into his world view. Many apologies. I hope that young!Prussia makes up for it, even if the ages depicted are not precisely cannon. He was ungodly hilarious to envision as the Monastic Order of Teutonic Knights.

**Warnings**: Prussia's habit of swearing, Thirteen-year old!Hanover-Saxony with associated angst, Tsarist!Russia and implied rape, Denmark trying to make the German States into a man via excessive amounts of brandy, Imperial!Russia and implied rape, human on nation mental abuse, and an unhappy Sweden.

* * *

**Eight Men**

* * *

**Historical Notes**

**Grunwald** - The Battle of Grunwald was preceded by a time of extreme awkwardness in Polish politics. The King of Poland, a lovely lady named Jadwiga, had married the Lithuanian Duke Jogaila (later King Władysław Jagiełło of Poland) to unite the two countries against the Teutonic Knights that Christian Poland had invited to forcibly convert the neighboring pagans, such as those who lived in Lithuania. The marriage between Jagwiga and Jogaila was part of the deal that converted Lithuania from paganism, thus, whoops, no one actually needs the Teutonic Order to take over Lithuania any more, and just why are those knights eying the wheat fields in the Prussia district anyway? The power was fairly well balanced between the Knights and the Royal Throne of Poland for a time, but then the King of Poland died, and that left Jogaila holding the reigns of state while a few legitimate Polish candidates tried to put themselves forward. Nothing was accomplished, and Jogaila remained on his shaky throne because, basically, he was not the worst candidate out there, and he was already doing the job. Then the Teutonics decided that what the world really needed was another Crusade. Which brings everyone to the momentous Battle of Grunwald, where Jogaila proved himself as king and took the knights down, although he couldn't eradicate them completely.

**Stockholm** - King Gustav Adolf (Gustavus Adolphus, the Lion of the North) became king of Sweden at seventeen when his father died. Normally this would be a nice trade-off, but Sweden was financially impoverished (things would get worse, once the war with Denmark was concluded), and embroiled in three wars simultaneously. The new king used these facts to his advantage to rebuild, refine and redesign the Swedish army into the most feared fighting machine in Europe which dominated the scene through out the Thirty Years' War (we do not speak of the Battle of Nordlingen), and established the Swedish Empire, which lasted for about a century.

**Karleby (Kokkola)** - From 1696 to 1699 a famine swept through Northern Europe. Sweden lost 10% of its population, while Estonia lost 20%, and Finland, still a region of the greater Swedish Empire, lost 30%. I do not know if this 30% of the population is reflected in the Sweden 10% statistic, or not, but still, many people died, and Sweden's power as an Empire also began to come apart at the seams rather noticeably, given the fact that although the military was tip-top, the society at large was poor, and had very little to fall back upon.

**Nystad (Uusikaupunki)** - In 1700 various states within and around the Swedish Empire contested Sweden's control over Northern and Central Europe in what is now known as the Great Northern War. For 21 years, Sweden defended itself against varied enemies such as England (on behalf of the Hanoverian King George's German dominions), Denmark-Norway, Russia, two of the newly established German states (the remains of the Holy Roman Empire had begun to rebuild from the Thirty Years' War into a collection of independent German principalities), the newly made Kingdom of Prussia, and Poland-Lithuania. Poland-Lithuania (defeated by Sweden and given a puppet king for five years) and England (fearing the rise of an Imperial Russia) would switch sides to fight for Sweden during the war, with Poland-Lithuania returning to the anti-Swedish side once they got rid of the puppet king. The war crippled the Swedish Empire under the heel of The Tsardom of Russia, which returned to controlling the Baltic, while the German and Danish territories that Sweden had gained in the Thirty Years' War were split between Prussia, Hanover, Saxony, and Denmark-Norway. The Treaty of Nystad, between Sweden and Russia, was the treaty that ended the war, the other belligerents having already taken their spoils in a series of treaties in 1719, although Russia's allies continued to fight alongside the nation even after the lands they were seeking were obtained. Nystad is historically considered the moment when Russia rose to the status of Empire, Sweden fell from international grace, and the beginning of the end for the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth.

**Moscow** - Cathrine the Great was one of Russia's most powerful rulers. She skilfully guided Russia through rapidly expanding borders, the Russo-Turkish War, the Partitioning of Poland, the French Revolution, was a patron of the arts and culture of Russia to an extent that has not been replicated by any Russian ruler, past or present, brought about the Russian enlightenment with her interest in the arts, and vastly increased the power of the Russian nobility while maintaining her own sovereign rights as a female ruler. However, as a consequence of expanded privilege, there was an expansion of power abuse among the Russian aristocracy. It was already hard to live in a villain class, and punishing to be a serf, now it became an almost unlivable existence. There were over 50 peasant uprisings in the first 12 years of Catherine's reign. These culminated in Pugachev's Rebellion, which became a real threat to Imperial power. However, it was crushed under orders by Catherine just as ruthlessly as the previous rebellions. Pugachev was caught and executed in Moscow on January 10th, 1775.

**Kiel** - Many of Napoleon's victories in the Napoleonic wars resulted from clever French statesmanship getting France's enemies to fight each other. Initially the Nordic countries, devastated by the century and a half of near total warfare since the Thirty Years' War, chose to remain neutral in the conflict between France and the rest of the world. Both Denmark-Norway and Sweden had very lucrative trade agreements set up with France and England, and had no wish to lose their customers whatever happened. However, England, as ruler of the high seas, had a strict policy of stopping ships and looking for contraband, and it was just amazing how often contraband was found, or things went missing from the cargo during these raids. The Danish became fed up with it, and joined the league of armed neutrality which promised not to use arms against English patrol ships as long as England promised not to stop merchants of the league. This lead to England declaring war on Denmark, and suddenly France became Denmark's de facto ally. Of course, France used Denmark to attack Sweden, while Russia, heading west to aid the Prussian Army, snuck up on Sweden from behind (but that's a story for another chapter). Long story short, things did not go well for Denmark, fighting both England and Sweden at once, and in early 1814, it was forced to cede Norway to Swedish rule, breaking a union that had lasted for over four centuries.

**Solna** - Norwegians did not take kindly to discovering that they were suddenly part of a Swedish vassal state. Once the news filtered down (this took about a month), the Norwegian government declared independence. Sweden, still smarting over the loss of Finland in 1809, did not take the declaration well.

* * *

**Chapter 2: That Which is Broken-Hearted**

* * *

**July, 1410 - Grunwald**

Toris smiled nervously as the tinkling laugh crashed over his head. Feliks was an experience that he was still getting used to—much like the long dull masses that made Feliks' eyes gain an unexpected shade of emerald [1]. He honestly could say that he had liked the King of Poland much better. She had been, while being very much like her unconventional country, just conventional enough to keep Toris comfortable. She had even insisted that Feliks learn Lithuanian, a move that touched Toris [2]. This had been a good match.

But now they were reaping one of the few real mistakes the old King had made. The business with the peasants, well it had annoyed Jogaila, but really, Toris did not see the harm. She was just doing what a good person should do, according to her principles. That should have been admired. [3]

"Come, I want to totally dance," Feliks purred, one delicate hand resting on the fur trim of Toris' shoulder.

The Duchy of Lithuania looked around in consternation at the mud and sewage slop of the camp, the grass snarling the best horses with hidden stones, and the fact that it was a clear day, and from across the way he could see the white head of whatever the heck that _thing_ was, young and eager with pale pink eyes. "W-what? Now? This is a _war_ camp, Feliks."

Sashaying around Toris, Lenkija shrugged veil wrapped shoulders, making the pearls at his throat dangle interestingly above his scandalously bare collar bones. Not that the fact that they were bare, peeking out from the wide collar of his gown like sly minks in heat, was really all that scandalous, Lithuania supposed. It was just that everything about Feliks breathed scandal, and laughed at it. "Lame excuse. All the more reason, as I see it. How is that nasty jumped up Army thing gaining allies, anyway? He says that my populace doesn't support your leader. But if I show that _I_ support you, there will be nothing to, like, worry about. Come."

"But there's no music," Toris protested, even as Feliks grabbed his fingers, twining them together.

Leaning in, Poland smiled. "Kvailas Lietuva [4]." A skirt clad leg slid stealthily between Toris's more masculine wear, forcing the nation to step to one side. "We make our own."

"I really don't, Feliks."

"Then you'll just have to follow my lead, won't you?" Poland chirped, holding his partner's hand high, wrists interlocked beginning to stalk around his brown haired mate.

Toris put his free gloved hand over his face, even as his feet began to stumble along, following whatever music was going in Feliks' head. This was embarrassing, being led through a simple circle by a man in woman's clothes and veils. He _knew_ all the humans were watching them. He knew that strange thing running along with the Teutonics was watching, probably making some sort of witchcraft story out of it all in his head. How had Feliks talked him into this?

Probably the same way he had talked Toris into using their human names most of the time. _"Like, it doesn't matter what we call each other, right? So I'm going to call you Toris when I want to." _Feliks had just begun doing it, and Toris had to continue, in order to keep up.

Lenkija [5] whirled away, his skirts a wheel of gold and maroon embroidery. The sheer veil on his head floated over those gleaming blond tresses that made him the envy of every court. Toris faltered for half a step, and then the blond land was whirling back into his arms, because that was how the dance worked. Hand clasped, and then Felix's arms were crossed over his taut stomach, and Toris was holding him the way the dance indicated pressing his slim teen chest against Poland's slim teenaged back, but there was nothing in the footwork that said the boy should be blowing his warm breath on his partner's neck.

They swayed to the right, Toris in control of his feet for once. "That kid is watching us," he muttered, trying not to get flustered, and miss another step.

Feliks had to be smirking. Lenkija threw his whole body into everything, even a smirk. "Let him."

Arms loosened, and the lady twirled, quick little steps of quick little feet under his dress keeping him in one place, under Toris' guiding hand. The formerly pagan nation flushed, thinking of the dances farther east. This one had an obscene amount of body contact, but at least he wasn't bouncing around like a seed pod in the wind. No. He was just following whatever Feliks wanted, as always.

They circled each other again, the blonde laughing at a sudden passing thought. Toris waited for an explanation, knowing it was coming. Feliks always spoke his mind.

"They're watching us," bare fingers detached from thin riding gloves, and they switched hands with the direction of the circle. Those clear green eyes took on the glimmer of hard topaz. "The humans. They know I've chosen _you_, so maybe now—," this time it was the blond who missed a step, and stumbled.

But Toris was there, and he moved with a grace neither of them knew that he possessed, to catch Lenkija, turning the stumble into an elegant swoon. Feliks' laugh delightedly cavorted in the clear air. He wrapped his arms around Toris' shoulders making Lithuania go bright red. They were far too close. Lenkija pressed together, as though they were going to kiss, and it was _not_ part of the dance, but those dainty feet were still moving, and Toris had to move with them, or fall himself.

"Like, Liet, we both know you don't have the strongest grip on the throne," Feliks whispered Toris' most secret thoughts. "But that doesn't matter to _me_. I'm Polska [6], babe. Whatever I feel about the situation, we've got to press on, right? And I'm, like, totally sorry for inviting _him_ here to force you to convert. Just want to let you know, before we fight him."

Toris wanted to push Feliks away as those words passed between rosy red lips, adorned with the little smile that said 'oh, but it's totes all right.' It would interrupt the flow of the dance to push Poland away now, and anyway, his would just spin himself back into Lithuania's arms somehow. Toris' only defense became an angry step to the left, and a dip that tested the spring in Lenkija's spine.

"I _liked_ being pagan," Lithuania hissed. "I _liked_ who I was before you came along, changing me. I can't _stand_ your interminable hours of services. I can't stand _Latin_."

Feliks returned the fury with a small kiss on his cheek, covered from prying eyes by Toris' waterfall of brown hair. "Litwa, Litwa—those are just the trappings that you don't like. Trust me, you love the rest. And you'll get used to the trappings in time."

The pearls were tight on that pale throat, as Toris forced Feliks to maintain the prolonged dip, because he could feel the heat of their bodies even through his protective leathers and furs, and it was so uncomfortable on a hot July morning. "Why're you doing this to us, Lenkija?"

Feliks rose from the dip, pushing against Toris reminding the nut brown, uncivilized, pagan partner that Polska was _powerful_ when he wanted to be. "Like, why not, Liet?"

They whirled apart, the phantom music back, and pounding in Toris' ears. "Because we were fine on our own. Because we don't _need_ to be changed."

"Mmm," from one end of their muddy, outdoors dance hall, Poland raised both shoulders, which were too broad for his dress, and ruined the illusion of the delicate maiden, "I, like, disagreed, obviously," he swirled back, Toris meeting him awkwardly half way, prowling around the spinning skirt. "I want a partner I can trust, you know?"

"You have plenty of people in your own land who could take the throne," Toris countered, moving 'round and 'round. "I could leave."

Again that teeth grinding irritating laugh. "Your leader wouldn't like it."

"Sometimes leaders don't know what's good for the country. You're _not_ good for me."

Feliks shifted to the side, and they wheeled around each other. "Oh really?" They came together again, getting far too close, far too improper for Toris, who found his hands on Felik's hips, lifting the light-hearted nation like a feather, without any conscious thought. "You haven't mis-stepped once, Liet."

Finding himself looking up into gemstones, embroidery, and all of Feliks' physicality, Toris blushed angrily. "I have."

"You can't," Feliks' gaze was predatory, and Toris knew that he had no idea which one of them was taking over which. "Remember: I totally said that there was no music. So, there's totally no way that you could have mis-stepped, because without music, there is no, like, dance."

Thinking about the way Feliks worked, Toris just shook his head, giving in, as he always had to. "Those are just trappings, Polska."

Feliks laughed. It was not tinkling. It was a happy roar from a young man's throat. Toris spun them, gently lowering Lenkija to the ground. "You'll stay with me, Liet. You'll stay with me forever."

"I won't."

"You totally will," Feliks replied, grinning. "I'm just that fascinating, and you won't be able to let go. So," Feliks took the leather clad arm, squeezing it to his side happily. "what are your plans for the up-coming battle?"

They walked together through the tents and the mud and the dust, past all of the staring human faces. Lithuania smiled quietly to himself. "I was thinking of abandoning you, actually."

He could feel the gemstone eyes burning into his temple. "You'd better totally have a better plan by tomorrow."

Toris nodded obediently. He looked out at the slow massing of black and white on the other side of the valley. Among the knights drilling, and pulling themselves into formation, a young child dressed like a full knight, though he should have been no more than a squire, sat atop a supply wagon, glaring at the two colorful nations. A quarter master, busy unloading the back reached up to tousle the white head, earning him an embarrassed pink eyed scowl. Toris couldn't hear, much less understand, the garbled Latin and Prussian Polish from this distance, but he suspected the Monastic Order was saying something along the lines of: "Not in front of the nations!" Some things were fairly universal.

"So," Toris began slowly, "have you ever heard of one of us coming into being without actual land? I mean, he was around since there was an army."

Poland shrugged with one shoulder, the other too close to Lithuania to move. "Does it, like, matter? To my way of thinking he should be pretty easy to get rid of, right? And even if he isn't, once we defeat him, I'll make sure he sticks to the Prussia district. It's hard to make trouble when you've got to be totally concerned about the harvest."

"I suppose. I just didn't think that humans alone could have that kind of power."

Fleiks was uninterested in the mistake he had accidentally let loose on his land. "Meh. It's not healthy for a nation to rely so much on humans, you know? If we get, like, attached, what will happen once they inevitably die? He's totally just one of those flukes of nature, like two headed calves. Honestly, if we want to practice witchcraft, we're going to do it in a way that is actually productive, like, right?"

Just then, the colorless thing in chain mail cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled out in the language of lands, rather than humans: "You're a fucking witch, Lithuania! And Poland, I don't even _know_ what your problem is, you dress wearing freak!"

Feliks laughed. "You know, I feel totally embarrassed that we ever told the others that there was, like, a danger of him conquering the world."

Toris, less confident, and more realistic, looked at Lenkija. "Let's feel embarrassed or not after the battle, okay?"

"Like, alright, but only 'cause you said so," Feliks was a warm weight on his arm. "Besides, feeling embarrassed totally doesn't suit me."

"No," Toris agreed, as they turned back to the camp.

* * *

**May, 1612 – Stockholm, Sweden **[7]

He had chosen the castle gardens for no reason in particular. Perhaps because it was May, and sunny. Berwald was no more an outdoors person than he was an indoors person, but even he could appreciate the beauty of a leaf unfurling from its bud to drink in the liquid spring sunshine. Perhaps because he wanted to admire the white walls of his lovely castle, and felt that he should not inconvenience the new king too much by forcing him to meander around the city, as Sweden found new angles to examine and etch in his mind. Perhaps because the land already knew what he would discover, and knew too, that he needed a stronger connection to the land than he normally did, and so it placed the idea of the gardens in the back of his mind that day.

Or, perhaps there had been no reason, no fate behind such a momentous occasion. Perhaps he just happened to meet his new king in the gardens because they were both taking the air, and had run into each other, as people do. Sweden, who liked order, disliked this most legitimate of theories because of the inherent chaos contained therein.

A swift darting from an overhang the on the round central tower of Tre Kronor caught Sweden's eye, and he stopped in the middle of the path, hands behind his back, head tilted to watch the speedy flight, the broad wings reminding him of perfectly sculled oars. Once he was done here, maybe he should take a walk along the Slottskajen.

It had been a long time since he had been able to just move through his cities and country, even taking this fine day from the wars seemed like stealing, but Tino and Eduard had assured him that he could do so. Well, Tino had told him that he would do so, or things would become very interesting, in a bad way. _Su-san, you weren't even back for the death of your old king. Go. Denmark isn't going to overrun things in one day_. He really was going to have to remind Tino at some point that Tino was his _wife_ and wives did not tell their husbands what to do.

Thoughtfully, Sweden continued along the path, enjoying the sunshine and the crunch of gravel under his boots. Denmark had a tendency to run on the water for the sheer joy of being a seafaring nation, but Sweden preferred a good piece of solid ground under him. You knew where you stood, with the ground supporting you.

Another crunch out of sync with his own came up the path from behind him. Sweden, not intending to walk as quickly as this human, stepped aside courteously, turning to incline his head. That was when he caught a flash of gold and piercing blue. Both men stopped moving, transfixed. With the effort of an oak tree in a hard wind, Sweden sunk to one knee, thinking how natural it all seemed.

"My king."

The blond young man, with his round handsome face, blinked, "Rise—please. Have you been to court before?"

Sweden kept his eyes on the shorter man as he unfolded to his normal lofty height. He shook his head mutely in response to the query. "Not yours, my king. I have been at war."

The broad mouth under the successful beginnings of a full mustache twisted wryly. "Who has not? I was just going to review troop movements. I—I think I would appreciate your insight."

Sweden nodded, waiting for the human to meet him, and then they began to walk together. Each stride filled him with confidence. Karl had been strong, but prone to an anger that Sweden had always found unwise. His son, however, Sweden cast the shorter man another glance, appraising the new, uncrowned king. Yes, his son had the same energy, but it was controlled, and directed properly.

"Have we met before?" Gustav asked, favoring Sweden with another one of those too bright glances.

Sweden considered the question. It was best to let leaders come into their own. If a man could not recognize his own land, it did not bode well for the land. On the other hand, Sweden could feel the recognition seeping into him with an amazed joy. "I was your father's servant."

Gustav nodded. "Just as the House of Vasa [8] has always been yours, I believe."

Sweden nodded, and looked ahead. The clouds scudding merrily across the sky seemed so much clearer. The sky so much bluer. The focus and intent of the man pulled at Sweden, as he acknowledged the human. Gustav knew what he had wanted. How had Sweden even managed to remain impartial when this man had taken on the role of his king? The human was so young too. He couldn't be more than eighteen, but already he was disciplined. Ready.

"We have done a disservice to you, I think," Gustav broke the silence once again. "Three wars is a lot to ask of a nation."

Shaking his head, Sweden was suddenly aware how out of fashion he was, wearing his hair close cropped, and not bothering with a beard. Anything else felt too much like a throwback to his younger years when he and Denmark were brothers on the sea, and Suomi was a mysterious word whispered from the interior. But to a young man like this, he must appear strange and remote. Not how one should appear to a leader. To _his_ king. "I can be in many places, my liege. It—stretches me. But I am capable. And there are others who guard my house."

The human, surprised, halted for a second, and then resumed his walk. "God in heaven, I do not know what is the strangest part of that statement. Still, three wars at once is far too much for my people, even if you are willing."

"I will do as you command. I am very strong," Sweden felt a little guilty about saying that. It was boastful. But he was strong. He would do all that was asked of him for this man.

The human shook his head, smiling a little, as the sea wind tugged slightly at his white lace collar. "I know you are. You must be," a small group of men and ladies in their court robes hurried past, and the blue coated Sweden nodded at them, which made the humans gain a confused look, and only distractedly bow at Gustav in passing. "Did you do that?"

"Yes," Sweden realized that this had troubled the young man. It had troubled him a small bit, as well. Usually he did not exert his power like that unless he was in a council of war. This was a walk through the garden to a council of war, of course, but it was still a fine May morning. He did not have to isolate Gustav.

However, it appeared that the isolation was not the main cause of the trouble. "Can they see you, then?"

Considering his answer, Sweden nodded, and then decided to elaborate. "In the same way they see the land around them. Some humans are more aware than others. It is the same with every one of us. But when we want to, we make our presence felt."

Gustav's understanding bloomed all around his land. It felt so good, the country thought, to be recognized like this. He was almost drunk. How long had it been since he had last felt this aware? In 1523 the founder of the boy's house had certainly pulled him together after the vicious split from Denmark, but before that? That went back to before the Kalmar Treaty.

Venturing carefully, Gustav asked: "I have seen two men beside Sigismund sometimes. They are _different_. Especially the one in the dress."

"Poland and Lithuania. I request that we," when had it become so easy to think in terms of 'we,' nation and leader? "not give in to your cousin."

Gustav's expression was grim. "I would never give into that Catholic swine. You should not doubt my faith."

The corner of Sweden's mouth tilted quietly upward. Oh, humanity. He was proud of his Protestants, and wanted the best for them, but why must humans simply assume that faith was the only thing that concerned him? "Personally, I am more worried about my capital becoming Warsaw."

Gustav blinked those strong blue eyes again. His mouth turned down for a moment, but then he stroked his chin thoughtfully. "It must be very _different_ from your perspective," it was and was not. "So, if you do not want to be ruled by him, peace is not in our full interests. What do you think of Russia?"

Trying to frame his thoughts in human terms was hard, Sweden realized. How did one say that Russia was dying, and it would be a mercy to him to put Sweden in charge of the whole mess? The large nation was only hanging onto his power by his teeth. In the long life of the Scandinavian country, Sweden had witnessed many dissolutions. Never for a nation as big as Russia, but he imagined the same principle that worked on tribes would happen to Russia. The land would fall into chaos, and then it would be absorbed by a stronger, more dominating power. That power should be Sweden's as he was by far the best candidate to take control, and he should take control early, so that the chaos was minimal, and the humans were not too badly harmed.

"Russia is weak and destabilized. Soon, we will have it." [9]

Surprisingly clean white teeth worried at a full lip, as the king considered what his nation had to say. Sweden felt like rejoicing. The man was thinking of him, was looking at the strength and weaknesses in his suggestions. Was considering how far Sweden could be stretched before he was handling too many battles.

"Then—Denmark."

The formerly immobile face pressed its lips together, forcing blood from dead white skin. "Denmark will—,"

A human hand rose, and Gustav, so young and nothing compared to Sweden, gave his nation a reproving look. "I think two wars at once is plenty. If this is not resolved within a year, I will end it, one way or the other." [10]

Sweden maintained a scowl for several long moments. "Denmark will be crushed. He _needs_ to learn his place."

The human's near invisible gleaming eyebrows rose. "My father did provoke the Danes."

"He was just looking for the excuse. If I was not who I was, I would have killed him a long time ago."

The silent question rolled from the human at his side, too polite to ask a nation about its ways. Sweden acquiesced anyway, because the love and trust he felt could not be denied. "Sometimes, humans do not push far enough. We act through them, and their actions give us leave to move. There have been many times when I have held my sword to that dog's throat, and been incapable of pushing further."

Gustav looked thoughtful. "It must be a terrible thing to be so bound."

"No," Sweden saw the swift swoop through the sky once more. "It is who I am, as I said. If I did not hold my rage I would not be Sweden. We are not men, your highness. Despite those who cling to the petty verisimilitude. We are not men. We do not feel things as you feel," and he just _admired_ Gustav. For having the mind that thought through his country's needs. This human boy was _just_ human, in the end. A nation was stronger than one man. Fools like France and Denmark could venerate mere men. Sweden forged ahead of such folly. Now he would be doing so under the direction of this strong young man. But that was not any different from his father, or grandfather, or even his Catholic cousin. "Were we to feel these things, we would be neglecting our duty. We would favor some of our people over others. Human failings would become our own. That would be a disservice to you, greater than merely getting me into a few wars. I was forged in battle."

The leonine young man chuckled at this, causing Sweden to smile. "Speaking of battle, I'm planning on getting rid of all those stupid heavy cannon. We're not moving fast enough on the field with those weighing us down. I would like your support with the generals on this. Especially with Oxensteirna [11]. He has been skeptical of my plans. We are a militant nation, to my view, and that means we must update the military. Just as we have the perfect proving grounds to practice my ideas."

Sweden, agreeing, let the light of his old ways accidentally shine from his face. An updated military sounded good. Gustav's ideas sounded better. They continued in through Tre Kronor, speaking in general of tactics and planning, while the silence carried unspoken promises of Empire.

* * *

**October 1698 – Karleby, Sweden (Kokkola, Finland)**

The sky was very sad at dawn, Tino thought, leaning against the thin bole of a weeping birch tree. His support was withering and fading from the biting frost that had already nipped at its branches, touching it to the core. He felt sorry for the brittle tree. Birch weren't his favorite trees by any means, but he did feel sorry that something that supported him must eventually die no matter what happened.

Lying half concealed in the coarse sea grasses, he looked out at his lovely blue jewel. The salt laced air burned the back of his throat, as it slid over his swollen tongue. He was far enough away from the city that he did not have to worry about the smell of desperate fish from the wharves, being rationed out among the populace that could not afford it, because the cows no longer produced milk, and the food refused to grow. Tino had come out here for some reason relating to that, but he could not remember what, now.

Snow settled gently around him, and he smiled quietly at the white flecks. Goodness, it did not even feel cold. That was probably bad. How many more people had died during the night? He stretched out his senses, trying to feel the lives on his barren land, and give them hope.

A fire crackled merrily, bringing the scent of cooking fish to his nose. Eyes fluttering open, he saw a battered tin vessel being held over the flames by long tongs, while nearby a pot rested on a tripod with a smaller fire under it. But the tongs were important, because they were being held. These, he dizzily followed up to a hand and arm draped in a deep blue coat with gold piping on the noble cuffs.

"T'ought I'd j'in y' f'r dinner," someone beyond the ring of firelight mumbled.

Tino smiled a bit, and tried to sit up properly. "Oh, well, if that's the case, I must inform you, dear sir, that the larder is bare."

The tin sloshed happily as it moved from the fire. Berwald fussed with the hot jar for a minute or two, poking his finger into whatever liquid it contained, testing the warmth. Tino noticed hazily that Sweden remained out of the circle of firelight. Peering through the snow sleeting across his vision, Tino made out two fish slowly browning on sticks over the coals. "Those look gorgeous, Su-san."

A grunt answered him. Moving around the fire, Berwald slid in next to Tino, reminding the smaller man that his overlord was simply cat-like, even if he claimed not to like his own body. A long arm enveloped the exhausted nation. Warm metal was held to his lips. "Drink."

Tino gasped as warm water entered his mouth. Just enough for a sip, then the beaker Sweden was using dipped back down, waiting for the swallow. Unable to manage it—when had he last tasted anything liquid?—Tino spat and spluttered, his engorged tongue almost choking him.

Sweden waited through the whole thing, and then gave him another sip. The fire crackled, showering sparks into the air. Tino drank, slowly, mainly because Berwald kept tight control over the cup ("F'r y'r own gud"). The fish, in the meanwhile blackened, Sweden absently turning them as the time passed.

Looking up at the stars Tino sighed tiredly. "I could have sworn I was watching the dawn."

The arm squeezed his shoulders in silent, worried confirmation. Berwald finally allowed him to have the cup of water, as the tall nation slid away, tending to the pot on the smaller fire. Gracefully, he pulled the fish from their sticks, and a knife as efficient as his sword filleted their dinner in his weapon calloused hands. Tino watched as the grease spilled out over hard palms. It had been so long since he had seen that much food.

The fish went into the pot. The bones were tossed into the grass for scavenging birds in the morning. No larger animal would disturb the land. Then Berwald held out his oily hand. "Lick?"

Once such an offer would have been a command ("F'r y'r own gud") and would have terrified Tino. Now it was what it always had been: an offer. From someone who had rich fish oil on their fingers to someone who had not eaten enough to remember what fish oil was.

Wishing that he could glide like the tall man looking after him, Tino had to content himself with padding to Sweden. His legs nearly gave out, and he sank to the dead, frosty earth with a surprised noise.

Without a sound, Sweden slid around him, fastidiously unwilling to touch Tino's rough clothes with his greasy hands, as though that would be objectionable, to dirty the sad, patched fading blues and graying white. Probably the idea of having fish oil clinging to his skin for so long was giving Berwald creeping horrors. Tino took the right hand with fingers that hid tremors of weakness. His tongue lapped at the beginning of sustenance.

Night opened up around them, stars gleaming high overhead with the onset of winter. Still Tino licked and sucked, until the last fingertip no longer tasted of fish, and just reminded him of Berwald, which made Finland blush.

Letting go with a smack, Tino nodded to Berwald. "The washroom is over there, sir. Please note the new pipes we installed, and how seamlessly they fit with the natural beauty of the rustic abode."

Rising like a mountain, Berwald laughed, and then ran into the dark to actually clean his hands with sea water and sand. Maybe he was keeping soap stone in one of those large pockets on his coat?

Looking into the pot, Tino sighed. The weak stock looking back at him held few traces of either fish or vegetable. All right, so he had not eaten in a while, and anything stronger would make his stomach rebel, but this was unfair.

Sitting listlessly before the fire, a huge warm weight settled over his shoulders. He looked up, seeing Berwald in only his waistcoat, and breeches, uncomfortably trying to dry his hands on the embroidered silk.

Looking down at the small tent that enveloped him, it turned out to be the long, fashionable court coat. "So, that's what they've got you wearing these days?" Tino asked, his eyebrows just one side of mocking laughter. He knew Su-san was trying to figure out which side, as the large man sank cross legged before the fire.

After poking his small creation with a stick, Berwald suddenly commented: "I's stupid, I kn'w."

Tino, feeling too tired to keep his head up, leaned against the nearest solid side that Sweden presented. "I don't know. It makes me glad I stay away from your capital and court."

Pop. Crackle. "It's y'rs, too."

Finland pressed one trembling hand against ground that was screaming out for its lack of fertility and its sorrow for being exhausted, and incapable against biting frost and no rain. This was clean pain. It had nothing to do with the torture of cities, bowing down the land, consuming everything for miles in their rapacious gluttony. "Not really, Su-san," the small land admitted. "I mean, it is mine, but it's not where I want to be. Plus," the young man grinned, his eyes dancing, "they _like_ you. The tall, handsome, mysterious lion at Svea's feet. I'm just a dirty little ragamuffin, worried about silly things like how well the peasants are doing. I'm only there to remind them that they're doing their duty. I don't want to be anyone's duty. Especially not if I've got to wear all that silk stuff."

Sweden grunted, looking morosely at the pot. "Us'd t' be wars f'r me."

"I remember."

They sat in silence together. The Swedish Empire and a small principality from within his own land that held onto its identity with such sweet ferociousness that he had never lain down and died.

"So, what are you making? It looks like good food going to waste."

Berwald chuckled. His cheekbones were standing out more, Tino noticed. How long had it been since he had taken care of himself? "Act'lly y' c'n blame Danmark f'r when I p'ison y'. Th's's fr'm his c'nquerer o' Storbritannien [12] days."

Tino's eyes widened. "Berwald! I don't want to _die_!"

"D'n't w'rry. 'll die wit' y'. 'Nyway, 's just boilin' ev'rythin' t' base comp'nts. 'Ven _Arth'r_ c'n't mess _th't_ up," Berwald reached out to hug the trembling Tino.

Tino allowed himself to be pulled into the embrace. A feather light kiss landed on his temple. It was not an order, or a command, or even a request. He had been through all of them with Berwald at one time or another. Now it was just the two of them, with their own boundaries. Tino with the land. Berwald with the Empire.

"You know," the smaller of the two began after a few minutes. "I wonder what they would do back at the castle. If they knew about you and me."

Night silence, then: "Y' mean," a ruminating pause. This was something Berwald hated to think about, and Tino felt just a little guilty for pushing him there. "W'll, y'd b'come a b'gger duty, 's y' put it. C'n't h've y'r 'mpire runnin' 'round feelin' f'r th' peas'nts l'ke that. Oh no," bitterness managed to creep through.

Tino looked at the sea, Su-san's domain this far north. "See why I don't want to go to the 'civilized' section of the Empire? My section either doesn't care, or would burn us alive as many times as necessary."

"M'ne w'n't _dare_," the growl rumbled deeply and resonated from within Ruotsi's chest. It reverberated rawly in the night air, entering Finland's ears much differently: _I won't lose you, too_.

Tino did not much know, or want to care about Berwald's leaders. Not after the Great One had ripped the giant out of his comfortable skin, and turned Su-san into a monstrous thing called an Empire. Tino hated going into battle with him, anyway. The anger that he took out on humans was incredible, and the things that he allowed his troops to do horrified Finland.

But that was nothing compared to the fierce, terrible despair that had rocked through the land in as one stocky, leather clad body had been recovered from the mists of war. Finland had woken from a nice nap on the Polish border screaming, and had run through the man who came to check on his tent. The only person who had really understood the way Berwald could have torn human limbs apart, and beheaded Hungary twice had been Danmark, who whistled from captivity, and said that it would have been nice to see the old days once again.

"Did you love him?"

Not that they were meeting each other's eyes, but Berwald turned his face from Tino, anyway. "No. 'M a n'tion. C'n't l've. N't like th't." He bent over the pot again, and then produced a pair of long handled spoons, from back when ruffs had required their use, from a pocket in his waistcoat. "'S ready, 'nd not goin' t' get m're appetizin'."

Tino, who knew all lies, in all shapes and sizes smiled to himself. "Well, still, thanks for making something that I won't throw up for being too rich."

Banking embers carefully, Sweden looked over his shoulder. "Y' w're alm'st gone, t'day."

"Don't be silly," Tino waved the spoon dangerously, not liking the light that bounced from the rectangles of glass delicately balanced on Berwald's blade of a nose.

"Y' w're. F'lt y' sinkin' int' th' land. Y' _c'n't_ give so much 'f y'rself."

Desperate orders. Tino grinned back slyly out of the corners of his wide innocent eyes. "You would have been there for my people."

He did not miss the possessive stubbornness in the set of Berwald's mouth. "'M not leavin' y' 'til y'r better."

"What if I have to do that, Ruotsi?" Tino whispered the childhood name in the human tongue.

Berwald glared. "Y' never _h've_ t' do th't. Y'r th' only part 'f me I c'n st'nd, Tino. Y' c'n't g've y'rself up f'r th' humans. They die 'nyway."

Tino's breath flowed out white and foggy. And that's where you go wrong, Ruotsi. That's where we go wrong, because I can't be part of you, and an anchor for your sanity. It's not romantic that you can't live without me, and can't deal with who you really are without me as some protective shield against the reality. It's sick.

But he did not say those things, and just kissed Berwald gently over the pot of awful boiled things. Because he had abandoned that formal duty to his people to make sure that Tino was not going to give too much of himself away. Because Berwald worried about Tino. Because Berwald offered, rather than ordered. Because Berwald liked talking with Tino. Because even if all of his reasons were false, their intent was good and true. Because when they shed being Ruotsi and Suomi or Finland and Sverige, Tino did want to kiss Berwald to sleep each night.

* * *

**September, 1721 – Nystad, Sweden (Uusikaupunki, Finland)**

The Kingdom of Prussia swaggered. His face had flakes of internal bodily human mess decorating one cheek, but he still swaggered, tall, fierce and strong. Behind him Hanover-Saxony (the poor kid really needed an easier name than he had, having to switch each time one of his territories got into a scrap. Admittedly, they weren't as scrappy as Prussia, but that name was too unwieldy, and he needed a new one. Something awesome like Western Prussia [13], but the boy got mad whenever Gilbert suggested as much) stumbled along like a colt, his body all uncoordinated.

"For the love of all things holy, you bloody tosser, stop showing off," Arthur groused from the losers tent. Well, his losers tent. He didn't have to share with the freak Sweden because he had at least been on their side for part of things, and both Prussia and Denmark had agreed that England might be annoying, but he was willing to pay his share in any pub trawl, and that was really all that you could ask (indeed, Prussia had already convinced Arthur on several occasions to pay for Prussia's share of the drinks, too, which meant that however broody and angry the man might be, he was a damn fine man) [14]. Also, although Gilbert did not admit this one out loud, Hanover would have been unhappy with Prussia if the most awesome military commander on the face of the earth allowed England to be treated like The Enemy. Arthur had just chosen the wrong side in the end, and was now sore about it. "And stop corrupting the boy!"

Gilbert stuck out a pale pink tongue. "I corrupt nothing! I'm elevating him. With my awesomeness. Tell 'em German States."

Blond and awkward, Hanover gave him a blank look, and then sighed. "Is that what I'm going by now?"

"No, it bloody well isn't, Hanover!" Arthur turned all of his impressive glower on Prussia. "Stop trying to make him into something he isn't."

The blue eyed kid at Prussia's side ran distracted hands through his hair, as though trying to slick it back more than the water and comb had managed before the battle. Gilbert wished the kid wouldn't do that. It reminded Gil of Roderich the unawesome. Hanover-Saxony-All-The-Rest was way better than that. But given the state (hah) that he had found the new nation in when he picked it off a battlefield in 1648 [15], Prussia could forgive the kid trying to find a look that was nothing like his blood stained baby kid self. Obviously, in time, he'd come around to the proper idea of things, which involved being Western Prussia.

"I actually like that, a bit, England. With all respect, of course," Hanover replied, making Arthur throw his hands in the air.

Grumbling, the green eyed nation kicked a tent peg. "You're a disgrace—,"

Prussia's fist smashed into England's jaw before the rest of the sentence could be said. Having just lost a war, Arthur was already unbalanced, and the blow sent him bottom first into the Swedish ground. Gilbert, about to pounce on him, and beat the snot to the pulp that he so richly deserved, found two hands gripping his elbows firmly. "I can take care of myself, Prussia," the quietness in Hanover's voice only served to highlight how quietly he seemed to be strong in his hands.

Vindictively, Gilbert lashed out with one cavalry boot to kick Arthur in the shin, before he let the younger boy pull him out of range. "If this is how you treat all your dependents, Arthur, don't be surprised when they try to crush your sad vital regions!" Prussia snapped, pretending to ignore the kid, but he relaxed enough to let Hanover know that he was not going to lunge straight for Arthur's throat once again.

The shorter kid let Prussia go with a sigh. "You're a lot of trouble to be around, you know?" he commented with a child-like honesty that was just too freaking adorable.

Gilbert responded by tackling the boy in an enthusiastic hug. Much to his surprise, the kid didn't fall. Sure he swayed, his growing body still not ready for the mass of Gilbert's lithely muscled form, but the kid had managed to plant his feet firmly against the assault on all his teenaged dignity.

Grinning in glad surprise about this, Gilbert changed the hug into a comradely arm about the shoulders. "Hey, kid, you're doing pretty well for yourself. Pretty soon I'm gonna have to find you a hat, or something."

"You think a hat is all that is standing between me and prosperity?" the boy asked skeptically.

Tilting his head ridiculously, his own tricorne nearly dislodging the small bird nestled happily among its white accent feathers, Prussia answered with the obvious: "Well, you also need a large dose of super awesomeness, but you're getting there. So, you've now got the passage to the Northern Sea, wanna go out marauding and grabbing vital regions with me and Denmark?"

Hanover had to turn his head away, ostensibly to look at the long snapping black and white banner crowning Prussia's tent, but really to hide how pleased the suggestion made him. Gil knew the need not to be _too_ eager when older nations invited him along to whatever they considered fun, and he did not mock German States—no, that still didn't sound right—because that would have been nicht geil, and therefore a huge sin.

Plus, Hanover's reply was a great rejoinder, even if the reality of it sucked. "Arthur has told me specifically not to listen to anything you, France, or Spain have to say on the subject of vital regions, Prussia. And after having listened to you, I'm inclined to agree that his advice was sound—if not entirely educational."

"Aw, fine, be a stick in the mud. I get sea sick, anyway," Prussia laughed. [16]

The German States just shook his head as they continued to wander around the camp. He still looked so small, Prussia thought nervously. This was his first big campaign, and surely the kid should have gotten bigger. Even with Sweden smashing Brandenburg underfoot in raging, unchecked soldier fury [17] Prussia had shot up like a weed at the end of the last major war.

Maybe he had made a huge mistake taking this kid under his wing. But they had been neighbors, and if Prussia hadn't done it, England would have just neglected the kid, given how Arthur's attention was focused on the ocean for the most part. No one needed to come in second to some fugly old ships. Besides, mess in one house had a habit of spreading to the next door neighbor's unless you were as freaking vigilant as Switzerland. Damn pipsqueak had actually threatened Prussia with death at the Westphalia, if he did not keep his nose out of Swiss Affairs [18]. As though the puny soldier with the most explosive temper in the world was going to unnerve him. Hah! He was _not_ unnerved.

"So—about Arthur," Hanover began, as Gilbert attacked some leafy scrub with spearheaded leaves for being in the way of his boots. "Think he was right?"

"Is anyone other than me _ever_ right?" Gilbert panted, before jumping up and down furiously on the unsubdued vegetation. "Take that!"

Pinching his nose with one gloved hand, Hanover tried again. Prussia grinned internally, but kept his attention on the spiky weed. It wouldn't do to let the stodgy kid realize that the aggressive nation was capable of a decent conversation while he was conquering. The boy might actually want to talk about things all the time, and a lot of the questions so far had been about things that had nothing to do with Prussia, and therefore weren't interesting. Or they fell in the category of questions that disturbed Gilbert more than strictly necessary.

That was why it was essential for Prussia to take the kid out of himself. The current modus operendi was for Gilbert to show up, and promise the blondie a fun time—which usually meant a lot of blood, or Hungary chasing the both of them with a frying pan, or France trying to grope Hanover, or _all three at once_. Yes. Gilbert was just that good at making life awesome.

"Do you think that he was right? About switching sides?"

That made plant destruction seem less important. Prussia stuck his hands in his waistcoat pockets, trying to come up with advice that would serve through the ages, because this question was a lot more complicated than it had any right to be. "Nein. Ist total nicht geil. Tak. Ob man einege anfang machen, dann, dann—oh what is it?" [19]

German States managed to keep a very straight face with the help of a gloved hand, and some severe eyebrow control. "Nothing."

Gilbert leaned forward aggressively. "Spit it out, kid!"

"Your accent is very _distinct_ when you speak a human tongue," the smaller nation managed.

Prussia gave him a look. It could be summed up as 'displeased.' "Fine. I _try_ to be friendly, and speak your tongue when I have something important to say. See me try to be serious once more."

Twiddling fingers, the boy sighed, sounding like an old man. "Really, I'm sorry Prussia. I do want to hear what you have to say."

Mollified, Gilbert strode around the verdant mess that he had created. "That's better. Look, if you ally yourself against something like Sweden, you shouldn't just switch sides once you've gotten what you wanted."

"Arthur doesn't like Russia, Gilbert," Hanover defended the nation to which he was bound by royalty. "I know I'm young, but I agree with him. And you agree with him, too. So—,"

Prussia rounded on him. "It's a matter of _loyalty_, alright! You stick with the people you've sworn to!"

One pale finger found itself shaking inches from the withdrawn nose. The tall man took a step back from Hanover's personal space. Taking off the awesome military tricorne hat, he smoothed his hair for a second. "It's hot here. I thought Sweden was supposed to be all cold 'n' shit."

"What if you can't—stick to the proper people, I mean?" German States asked, looking far more troubled than anyone that young had a right to do.

Crap, this was approaching uncomfortable questions phase. Prussia did not like those. On the other hand, annoying as the kid was being, Prussia had picked him up out of a battlefield, told the poor boy, who couldn't remember anything, that he was most definitely a nation (because nothing else that Gilbert knew of could attach their hands back to their wrists so well), and found him something better than blood soaked rags. Doing that kind of thing was dangerous and it made _the Samaritan_ indebted for a reason that Gilbert had yet to figure out. He was hoping that if he was able to properly name the kid, make him slightly more human than the haunted shell that the country was, maybe Prussia would have paid back some of that weird debt he had not incurred.

Shrugging, Prussia growled: "Do your best to be loyal."

Risking a look back at the large tent, decked in the red, white and blue of the Russian Tsars, Hanover grimaced at the bleeding scrap tied to a stake in the ground. The stake next to his was empty. "What are they doing in there?"

Scrunching up his face, Prussia shrugged. "Dun know. Probably they'd be shouting if that damn blue asshole was the kind for shouting. This isn't our treaty, techn'cally. We're just witnesses, and celebrants."

The younger, resplendent in his red and gold, began to walk over to the tent, boots crunching on hard gravel. With a sigh, Prussia followed. Oh, to be young and foolish. Why was the kid even bothering to _care_? They'd won. That was the end of it. They'd won, and Prussia, however poor he might be, was a fucking power to be reckoned with.

Red eyes caught the long standard above his tent for a moment, and the black eagle screamed joyously in the breeze. That was him. The kid could be something else, maybe. Something soft-hearted, and bound to the ground, as he knelt over Finland's body. Prussia couldn't hear what was passing between the two, but the canvas on the tent snapped to one side.

Sweden, a massive slash, that Prussia recognized with glee as his, showing whitely across the craggy face, limped to Hannover, and tossed the boy to one side. Just picked him up in one hand and tossed him into the dirt.

"K'p 'way," he growled thickly, his boots anchoring a bridge over the sad body. From behind the giant nation, the monstrosity of the Russian Tsardom leaned on a tight guide rope negligently.

"The boy is nearly all gone, da? Sweet little one, to put up such a fight, for so long. But no one survives my anger forever, da." [20]

Sweden fixed Russia with a furious glare. Dimly, Prussia felt the rage he'd faced in soldiers straining out of the rocks. Crush. Grind. Suffocate. Destroy.

The Tsardom didn't seem to notice, or perhaps he just did not care. Violet watched blue, as tenderly, Sweden knelt over his peasant land. "'Stonia," the fallen empire bit off unexpectedly, as hands smoothed the blond hair back from a clammy forehead. A small smile had appeared on pale skin, visible only to Gilbert because large fingers moved at just the right instant. But the delirious smile slid into a frown, and was gone.

"Eduard is—interesting. I like his grain fields. But the boy has relatives among my people, da? I will not deprive them."

Silence in the noon time air. Sweden's back curled protectively over Finland, unknowable thoughts rushing behind the glasses. Then he straightened, turning once more into the Nordic mountain. "'Nythin' 'lse. N't Tino. '_Nythin_' but Tino."

Russia considered, before laughing jovially. At least, it was meant to be jovial. It surely must have passed for jovial at first blush. Even if it sounded like the chanting of witches long ago to Prussia's ears.

"Get back in the tent, da?"

Sweden marched, stiff backed, clear eyed, into the shadows. Prussia winced. "Hey, States, let's go bug England, all right?"

Hanover was forced to catch up with the floating, trailing end of the cloak as Prussia strode in the opposite direction. The red eyed nation decided that some lessons did not need to be precisely objective. He seen it happen before, and sometimes, he admitted, fantasized about doing the same to Roderich, just for the sheer joy of his humiliation. But Germany didn't need to know any of this.

"So, kid, that's the piece of wisdom for today: don't get attached."

A horrified silence followed. Then: "Don't—? What do you mean, Prussia?"

Waving a hand in the air, Gilbert sneezed. "You know. Don't get like Sweden. He's a fucking monster, and you saw how Russia brought him low. Some puny little kid. Suddenly: 'Oh no, my boy toy is in trouble, better roll on my back like a good bitch and submit,'" Prussia fluted, picking at the hems of his jacket, and pretending to flounce along the wide cart path between tents. "Oh, and another illustration of fucking loyalty, and why loyalty to Sweden's not worth shit, by the way. You think Sweden'll be in bad shape in the morning? Just wait until you next see Estonia. Some protector ol' Schweden turned out to be."

They were quiet, for a moment, heading away from the general mess of canvas. Not heading in the direction of England's tent by bitter consensus. Away. Away toward the ocean. Cripes. On the kid's first big win, and Russia had to go ruin it by bringing Sweden's perversions and weaknesses into the matter. Probably Russia's, too, come to think of it.

Sneezing as they passed Denmark and Norway's tent, Prussia looked over out of desperate curiosity. He hadn't really seen Norway ever. Oh, he knew the country existed (and the very mention of him made Roderich go a really interesting shade of green), but he seemed to fade in comparison to the loudly scarlet king of their union.

Denmark, now, Denmark Prussia knew far too well. A good drinking buddy, but he had spent a awful lot of his long life kicking the living snot out of many of the Brandenburg territories, and there were nights that Prussia woke up still sore from those days. Pretty fucking impressive, of course, considering that they hadn't _been_ his territories when Denmark had been doing the kicking. Well, most of the kicking. That damn religious war was still a spiderweb of whiter lines spreading over his torso like ice cracked stone. German States' scars were even deeper, but he was coming back together, slowly healing.

Prussia was curious. Plus he could hear drunken singing, which meant that despite the best efforts of their Swedish hosts, at least one of the Nordics had managed to find something alcoholic, and Prussia wanted part of that. Actually, he wanted a lot of that. Anything to erase the thoughts that the last five minutes had conjured.

"Hoi! Dänemark! [21] If you've got booze, it's time to share! C'mon States," Prussia skirted the edge of the tent to find both Denmark and his quieter partner sitting, starting towards the southwest, and the ocean. Well, at least, what little blue could be seen through the tall spike needled trees.

Several bottles clinked near Denmark's knees, and he was scooting even further from the dusty blue form of his neighbor, who had no real expression on his face, but a very large spear in one hand. If that was all to Norway, Prussia's suspicions that Roderich was a total pansy were now confirmed. Even more so than they already had been.

"Preussen [22]!" the bright blond called, waving his ax high overhead with one hand.

The massive blade nearly cut through the tent, and was only stopped by a swift parry from the long pole arm. Norway did not even glance in the Dane's direction, seemingly content with the view of the timber land, and hint of the sea. Well, content might be too strong a word. The world around them was maybe more interesting to those blank eyes than the nations that inhabited it. Or perhaps Norway didn't want to turn his head. How freaking weird. Nicht geil.

Prussia stalked closer in an eager inspection of the crate of bottles that Denmark had unearthed. "'M gonna take some of these," he commented sitting down.

The huge steel axe head crashed into the ground near the cavalry boots. You just had to get used to that, having him as a neighbor. Prussia leaned over, feeling the keen edge with a thumb, although his eyes slid back just once as Hanover clutched nervously at his own chest. Grinning, the former army looked at the axe once more.

"When'd you update to steel?"

Tipping back his bottle, and downing most of it, Denmark had to peek around the glass. "Mmm?" Pause, swallow, remove glass from lips. "The axe? Oh! The axe! Norge, when'd I reforge this?"

"You mean the first or second time Sverige [23] bashed your head in with that thing and then broke it under his heel?" Norway refused to look at his questioner, who had tilted his head back and up at the young man sitting on his chosen stump. "Or the fifth time, perhaps?"

Prussia wrestled with the wired down stopper on his pot bellied bottle. "I'm not drunk enough for this conversation, guys."

"I totally am!" Denmark grinned, fumes wafting from his sharp teeth.

Norway muttered something that sounded as though Denmark was _always_ drunk enough.

Denmark chuckled as though the tone of voice was not coldly and disinterestedly stating fact. "I know it was some time after '32, 'cause Sverige was bitching about me having attacked him with his own iron in '45. C'mon, pull up some grass, kiddo!" he yelled at German States. "'S Time to introduce you to true manhood! Brandy stolen from those poncy French diplomats! Plus, if we get your brother to sit in the middle, I'll bet that we can get Norge to work a spell to give him his color back!"

Prussia shoved Denmark, which was rather like trying to shove the ground out of the way. He took a burning pull from the bottle, making a face. It was good, but Prussia would have preferred some beer to start. This was late night fare. Still, it _was_ good.

Waving at German States to sit impatiently, the pale nation stuck out his tongue at Denmark. "If you can't tell these are my true colors, then fuck you," another swig. "Francis made this?"

Denmark sneered. The number of teeth that he revealed made Prussia wonder if he had made some sort of tactical error. Nah. He was Prussia, and he was freaking _brilliant_. Still, Denmark might be sore about some of the previous century—which was weird. In Brandenburg's experience with its northern neighbor, Denmark did not hold grudges so much as attack when he thought that there was something shiny that he wanted.

"His poncy diplomats brought it with them. Prolly they got it from somewhere else. They weasel around, in and out of our affairs. Fuck them. I've said if one of 'em gets anywhere near me again, I'll take his human head clean off his shoulders. Ya get my drift?"

"It is so subtle, you might have to explain it in detail. Again," Norway mentioned, rather sourly.

Denmark nodded emphatically, the little scrap of red bobbing on his blond hair. "Fuck yeah. So what 'm gonna do is take my axe, and then fucking kill them! Great plan, see? Cause then I can raid 'em afterward. Or I could raid them before. It doesn't really matter. Kid, you gotta try some of this stuff. We're speaking as men do, and you can't do that sober."

Norway snorted. It was a small, genteel sound, but Gilbert heard the contempt distinctly. Was Denmark just deaf, or something? "You can't do that at all."

The blond boy, sitting nervously at the outside of the group twisted his hands together in his lap. Prussia did the proper thing, fishing in the crate, and producing another one of the round bottomed bottles. This he shoved unceremoniously at his charge, before taking another gulp.

"Francis been bugging you, then?"

The axe lifted dangerously from the furrow in the ground, and then floated over to Denmark's crossed legs. "Since 1719? Not fucking much. Feh. Sverige's gonna get what's coming to him."

"Maybe a bit more'n that," Hanover muttered, as he eyed the bottle he had opened with weary consideration.

Prussia just shrugged, his shoulders messing the line of his mantel, but not really caring about Sweden, one way or the other. Actually, he did care one way. But again, Hanover was such a little pansy about things, and if Prussia mentioned dismembering a country, the poor kid would be so shocked. He took another gulp of sinus incinerating liquid. Damn that was warm. "He destroyed you, kid."

Silence, and then Hanover took a long drink. "It's not worth getting—,"

"Of course it's worth getting angry about!" Prussia exploded. "He took over my Brandenburg and set his fucking soldiers loose on my land! At least fucking Dane here had the sense to leave when the weather turned! And _you_, I know he's the _reason_ I found you where I did. He _butchered_ you. No one else could have been that vicious, and he was on my fucking side, understand? He. Butchered. You. Like a pig. So you know what, I'm gonna fucking drink to whatever Russia's doing to him, and you're not gonna stop me kid. I spent years on you, when I could have fucking left. Years," _because you were so tiny, and fuck, that was scary seeing a kid like you trying to find his own intestines and put them back in,_ "all because of some stone cold asshole."

Rolling into the tense silence, Denmark's chuckle eased drunkenly down Prussia's spine. Gilbert snapped at him, red eyes flashing madly. "What do you want?"

"Nothin'. Man, you're such a—I keep forgetting how personally you younger ones take things," Denmark leaned back on his elbows, legs sprawling every-which way. "It's time for some celebration. We won. War's over 'til next time."

Something malicious crept into the sinister side of Prussia's curled lips. He flowed over Denmark, ostensibly to get another bottle, only to come to rest above the older nation, the hand that reached for the case falling short, and landing on the inner thigh of those black breeches. His red eyes glittered with molten sunlight and smokey shadow. "You have a lot to celebrate, too, don't you, Dänemark? Didn't he give you back the Schelswig territory? I wonder," the hand slid up the thigh, "is it still as pretty as last time?"

Long steel suddenly shot in front of his nose. Prussia turned his head quickly. Norway was staring at him, standing now, spear held in experienced hands. "That is my union partner, Prussia. Do you have a dispute with him?"

The kid tossed back another nervous gulp of brandy. Prussia grinned, removing the hand to swipe a new bottle. "You shouldn't let him get so drunk that he can let his guard down like that," Prussia advised Norway, smiling brightly. "But it's a peace treaty we're here for, so let's have some peace."

"What the fuck, man?" Denmark growled shakily.

Favoring the northern territory with a knowing look, Prussia unstoppered his next prize. "I'm on the rise, Dänemark. Keep that in mind, when you next pull that 'I'm older and know better' stuff."

Scowling, the nation fished in the crate. "Norge has better ways of telling me to shut up."

"He's known you longer," Prussia shrugged. "C'mon, anyone want to enter into a singing contest?"

Hanover looked stricken. "Preußen [24], I really don't think any of us want to hear you sing."

"I'm not that bad!" Prussia tried to yell around the glass lips of his bottle.

Denmark, polishing off his brandy, and ready for the challenge after the disturbing moment, smirked nastily. "No one can beat a drunk Dane when it comes to drinking songs. I'm game."

It was clear who the winner was going to be. Even if Denmark had not been a very good baritone, booming joyful lyrics about the greatness of mead and wenches in languages long forgotten to the forest surrounding them, a reedy girl singing into a bucket would have been better than Prussia. The German States had covered his ears before Prussia even entered the fray, his voice fluctuating octaves. The singing, if that was what the screeching was going to be categorized as, wouldn't have been so bad, perhaps, if Prussia stuck to one register. But like his laugh, and his culture, and his languages, he changed everything around, sinking into a bass on some notes, before climbing into a high tenor, and then dropping once more into the baritone he should have maintained throughout his eulogy to the marvels of beer.

Rolling over and over on the ground, Denmark laughed enthusiastically, while the two nations not joining in the contest sincerely wished that he would stop encouraging the racket. At last, Gilbert stopped, and bowed magnanimously from the waist to Denmark's applause.

"You take the cake, Preussen. Really. And the icing! You are to song what Arthur is to cooking. Hoi, kid, it's not going to burn the memory away, even if you do drink it fast," the winner waved his own bottle at the pained looking Hanover, before looking thoughtful. "We should go get that grumpy little lion. He's good at this kind of thing. You know, like, like—," the bottle swooped, nearly sloshing out its contents. "Like a drunken angel in a choir loft remembering the Fall. Scratchy, like, but good kind of scratchy. Whassa word? Throaty. And he's good at filling in the gaps when he can't remember the words. Must be all them poets. They do something to the blood.

"Miss m' poets. Miss the sagas, too. You remember the sagas, Norge [25]? Back when it was all one, and Europe was our oyster. The _world_ was our oyster. I left graffiti on Greece's lions once. That was wonderful. A new port every minute, so many new adventures to be had. Tani, Sami, and Suetidi [26]. I miss Vinland," he slumped on the grass, knowing that only Norge would understand what he was going on about, before turning to the other nation drinking his way steadily through his first bottle, still. "'Nd you? What've you got to say for yourself kid?"

Gilbert, feeling slighted, waved his brandy. "Hey. What about me? Bin geil, tak. Warum-Warum sprichts-st n-n-ichts an mir? Mir darüber? Hmmph. Mit mir?" [27]

Denmark snorted into a laugh, following the highly accented flow with amusement. "Don't even try Preussen. Yer embarrassing yourself. _Tak_," he stuck his neck out, imitating the word, his mouth hardening inappropriately around the 'k,' shaping it into Germanic, rather than the soft rounding of the Polish. "As for why: I know all about you, Preussen. Don't know much about the kid. He's new."

"If you even think of invading, you sick—," Prussia was stopped as the spear flashed for a minute, Norway turning back to his former seat. The blank eyes flicked to Prussia as if to say: 'Spear? What spear? Oh. _That_ spear. Surely you didn't think that was a threat.'

Which it obviously had not been. Because Norway was completely uninterested in the doings of other nations, and how they interacted with Denmark. He just wanted to be left alone to look at the ocean, or forest, or whatever he found so engrossing.

Oblivious to both Norway, and the building tension between the north and south, Hanover carefully set down his bottle. "Y' want to know what I miss?"

"You don't have to tell him anything, Hanover," Prussia warned, feeling suddenly very much like England.

The clear blue eyes clouded momentarily, and then narrowed angrily at the nation that had repaired the body to which they belonged. "And what if I want to? What, what if I don't think your advice is any good?" something had changed in the timbre and pitch of his voice. It growled out like a bear frustrated at a baiting.

Trying to placate the meanness seeping from the younger-looking boy, Prussia held up his hands. "Hey, hey, I just mean 's not safe to share everything with other nations. 'Specially this bunch. No offense, Matthias."

"None taken," red and indolent, the former king of northern Europe sprawled on yellow green Swedish scrub grass. "Norge ain't offended, are you, Norge?"

"When you are present, Danmark [28], I find it very hard to be offended by anything more," Norway replied neutrally, his eyes on the blue and green world around them.

The maniacal grin that never looked into the words and only cared about the tone, because that was all that you could care about with Norge, fixed Prussia to the earth. "See?"

Hanover just lifted his lip in a sneer that had to be lifted from Arthur, and large, rangy forms on four legs, hunting eagerly through the brush. The teeth were sharp. His tongue, when opening his drunk mouth to reply, was red. "I want to know what I am! Am I nothing more than a pawn? Am I dinky Finland? Is that what I am? Prussia tells me I'm a nation. What does that mean? I don't understand this! _You_ speak of unified land," he stabbed an unsteady finger at Denmark, "and _you_ speak of people," rising, a boy with knees made of fiery water, the accusing finger swung in Prussia's face, "and that's supposed to combine somehow, and it's all me? When did that happen, and who said so, and why can't I remember anything before Zusmarshausen? Why won't _any_ of you give me _satisfactory_ answers? Why did I break my promises? I know something is WRONG!"

"Whoa, calm down, kid," the personification of Denmark began.

"I will not calm down!" the child roared. "And I'm not a kid! You keep calling me a nation? Then fuck off and let me return to land and fields and farmers, and kings, and mountains, and fish, and trees, and your stupid, precious _people_."

Denmark tried to rise. Hanover lunged with a furious cry. It was as though the air had crystallized into syrup. Each motion tore itself from the frozen time like uprooted trees, bleeding earth as their veiny roots snapped toward heaven.

Prussia caught the fist with warrior's hands, and then the accompanying knee with a soldier's stomach. The left hand, a hard ball of fingers and palm, smashed into his jaw with a crack. In response, white fingers closed down, crushing the captured right. Speed was his only friend. Gasping for air, he twisted the dominant hand.

Golden blond and red whistled straight into Prussia's face as Hanover-Saxony brought their foreheads together with a crunch that should have sent the neighbors reeling apart, but Prussia was holding onto his attacker with grim talons. Throwing back his pounding silver head, the rising nation cackled madly, giving into adrenaline.

The boy, too drunk to act with sense, tried to elbow his captor in the throat. Prussia spun, clinging to the balled fist and forearm, the momentum driving Hanover against Denmark's solid presence. The Dane's surprised profanity loaned rhythm to the furious scrabble, one Germanic boot coming down squarely on the foundation of Prussian industry, and Gilbert wrenched his partner's strong arm to one side.

Off balance for a moment, Hanover tottered, hovering between heaven and earth. Prussia flung him into the embrace of the solid ground, and wrenched his right arm up his back, pressing his knees in, too, for added weight. Hanover gasped, and became quiescent.

Denmark grinned, falling back to the ground, and putting his smiling face close to the German States', "Needless violent _rage_ brought on by excessive alcohol and crumbling control? Kid, you're such a Germanic country. Oh, drunken existential angst, I remember _you_," he cooed like a fond mother. "Last time I tried that, Germania broke my arms, and I think cracked open my skull. Or was that Suetidi? Either way—,"

"Do you fucking _mind_?" Prussia gasped angrily, further twisting the strong arm under him.

Hanover bit back any whimper of pain, his blue eyes almost black in the red face, with its mussed gold hair. "Why won't it ever _stop_?" he whined, not specifying what was going wrong, but Prussia hadn't expected that.

Giving the two northern nations a glare that promised dire retribution if they _ever_ repeated the pansy-ass things that he was about to say, Gil bore down on the confused nation. "Gott im Himmel, I don't know kid. I wish I could tell you different, I really do. I've been there, or someplace similar, and they don't give you an instruction pamphlet. I got lucky in a way. They gave me a God, and some commandments, and Writ and Rule, and then let me go out on my own, and it all worked out. But I know, I really do, what it's like not to know yourself.

"What it's like to see men who you admire wither and age, or just die because of violence or murder, or just plain bad luck, and realize that these lives are fleeting, but yours is eternal because they believe and love you so much. I know that's not your only problem, of course, but trust me, as long as you've got _people_ there's hope. Land comes, goes, is taken, is given, is just gone, but people can keep you. And that's all you need, sometimes, when there's no one else, and everyone has run off, telling you you're not right, and not normal, and frankly just an annoying, loud waste of space, well, that's when you have those important things to fall back on. The ones who really feel you in their hearts and minds, and breathe their lives for the knowledge that you're there, always there for them.

"That's what this loyalty is about, really. You can only be as loyal as they are. And damn, this is fucking faggy, and I know, but German States, even if you don't trust your land, and you don't trust your people, you've still got the rest of us who have been through all this shit before, or something near like it. And this is a weak offer, I know, and probably the least awesome thing you've ever heard from your perspective, but even if these assholes stab you in the back, you've still got me. 'Cause I found you, and we're brothers, and we're in this weird world with all the rules that don't quite fit.

"So shut the fuck up, and if you want another barney, I'll go the round with you. But let me get a little drunker, first, 'cause man, for a weedy little thing, you've got a kick like a cart horse."

"Promise?" Denmark cackled sweetly, and Prussia tried to spit him with bloody red eyes. "You ickle things, you."

Reaching a hand into his coat, Prussia produced a flintlock pistol, and placed the muzzel directly on the Dane's nose. "Hey, Dänemark? Have you ever been shot by one of these things? No? Do you want to?"

The colorless man allowed for the long coat of the blonde northerner to move out of his direct line of sight, before easing himself off the pinned boy. The German States sat up, still red faced, eyes still dark, and golden hair floating every which way, despite the careful combing of the morning. "I'm a mess."

"Meh," Prussia shrugged. "You'll get better. Just remember the rules: Don't be unawesome; fight like everyone is watching, 'cause an audience always makes it better; and don't get attached to someone so badly that them going down will mess up your whole life. In return, eh, I'll work on getting your language down better so you don't laugh at everything that I say, geil or not. Right?"

Covering his eyes, the normally serious young nation nodded. "Jawohl."

"Great! Dänemark, I think we've outstayed our welcome, so I'm off to go challenge England to a singing contest!"

Denmark waved, helping the kid to his feet with strong hands about the shoulders. How much did it take that giant to get actually drunk-drunk, anyway? Gilbert wondered, before noticing that something was different. As he walked away with Hanover, he realized that they were now shoulder to shoulder. Huh. Maybe the little blondie would grow up big.

Behind them, Denmark's voice wove complaints through the shimmering afternoon air. "Norge, how come you didn't do anything? I could have been shot, you know!"

"I don't get that lucky."

"True—Heeeeey, waaaaait a minute! If you're gonna be mean, I'm gonna join them over in Artie's tent!"

"Ah, peace at last, then."

Prussia shook his head. And people wondered why he refused to join unions. They were an unhappy lot. The best thing was to invade, take the bits you wanted out of life, and leave. No mess, no bother, and not anyone was hurt in the end. Well, people who weren't Gilbert might have been a little sore, afterward, but it wasn't that soul draining hurt of a partnership.

The two brother nations wandered around camp in the growing afternoon shadows, England flatly chasing them away from his tent as soon as the word "song" was mentioned, and Francis offering them wine for a little while, until Hanover pulled Gilbert's pistol on the romantic nation, and said quite clearly that he was going to shoot if that hand did not remove itself from his thigh, thank you.

Toward sunset, they wandered toward their section of camp, Gilbert not wanting to have to go around begging for candles so that he could write in his journal, just as Sweden stumbled from the Russian's tent. Both Prussia and Hannover stopped unwillingly, their breath streaming in the air that had finally begun to cool. Frost crunched up through the vegetation all around, and the nations to whom snow was an uncommon seasonal phenomenon were glad of their cloaks and jackets.

Stumbling forward, Sweden clutched his coat to a broad and exceedingly scarred chest, some of those wounds open still, or reopening under his distress. But he made it to the two stakes, before falling to his knees once more. The still body of his Finnish province lay somnolent in its bindings. Prussia's breath caught for an instant as he thought of another reason not to unionize, or allow individual piece of the land to remain themselves. This was a grim lesson for States, but definitely, he decided, necessary.

Necessary to see the taut arching of a once proud nation. This was almost the lowest one could go without partition, and German States was not ready to see that. Not in his current, nearly partitioned existence. Damn Schweitz. [29]

Then, without too many tremors, Sweden took Finland in his arms once more, leaning the smaller man in the crook of his body. The coat spread over the ground, cream facing glowing orange in the red flare and gasp of a dying sun. Twilight spread green and safe around the little camp, where Sweden, empire no longer, was reduced to nothing but the body of the lion and Finland for the whole world to see. Black crows in the branches of the trees croaked and chattered like Gilbert's speeding thoughts.

Gently, each leather thong binding Finland snapped under the full strength of Sweden. The region stirred as it was wrapped in the coat, struggling, weak, nearly dead. Cold and numb, the giant nation lay on the frost bitten ground, holding Finland to him, sharing what little warmth was left in his body. Winter was coming.

Prussia tore his eyes away, and turned to distract Hanover from the personal moment, only to realize that the boy was already looking away in shame. Seeing that face, Gilbert had to swallow his own thoughts, and remind his brother-neighbor-charge in a reptilian hiss: "He never was so kind to us when he invaded."

"Ich weiß. Können wir irgendwo anders gehen?" [30] quiet. A whisper in the dark. _In his place, could I make that choice?_

They turned. In the long shadows behind them, glasses glinted, balancing over a cheek sucking, boiled tea leaves smile. They walked past Estonia, who murmured, maybe to them, because they were there, or just to himself: "No one else but Tino."

There was nothing to say to that.

In the morning they discovered that someone had been stupid enough to drape the two losers in a blanket. Prussia rolled his eyes, as he shared a morning kip with Francis, and laughed at Hanover's hang over (and the associated puns that England made while taunting his loosely bound charge).

Russia prowled camp like a huge bear sniffing through their belongings. They all pretended that the previous day never happened, and looking into innocently smiling eyes, if you could ignore their blackness, you almost could forget everything that had occurred, Prussia thought. He hated that. He was Prussia. He never forgot things. Especially not the important things, and the Tsardom-Empire-Whatever was not going to make him start forgetting now.

On his stump, Norway looked out to the sea, his thoughts unreadable. Denmark bounded around, talking incessantly, kidding Hanover, and scattering as much as he packed away. Estonia, who noticed things like numbers, though, mentioned in Prussia's hearing that he was willing to help Denmark look for his missing blanket, if the northern nation wanted. It was the least he could do, as they all parted ways. Denmark laughed loudly, and claimed that Prussia had stolen his sheets looking for extra booze or cash, and he didn't care anyway, so don't bother getting it back, Eduard.

There was a kind of loyalty in that, too, Prussia thought, as he mounted his shining brown Barb—stolen from Austria's budding stable, not that Roderich would ever be able to prove that Pferdrick was anything other than a gift from Antonio. Behind him, Hanover swung into the saddle of his Andalusian destrier that actually _was_ a gift from Spain.

"Prussia, mind if I stop off at your house for the afternoon?" Hanover inquired. "I think I need some more practice with these tricky muskets."

"Sure thing, kid."

"Could you stop calling me kid?"

"Have you got another name?" Prussia laughed. "I think we're past the 'Prussia' and 'Hanover' stage—ooh! We could be like that snotty aristocrat's charges, and call each other brat and Bruder." [31]

"I don't think that's a good idea," Hanover replied sternly, wanting to stamp out Prussia's attempts at turning him into a copy of Prussia.

"Eastern Prussia and Western Prussia, then!"

"No!"

"Even in your language? I'll drop the Preußen, because we're that close. Osten und Westen. How about it?" [32]

"I'm the _German_ States, Prussia, and you renaming me won't change that!"

"So nicht geil!"

"I wish you had never learned that word."

The two young nations, one coming into his power, the other unifying because of, and against it, rode back toward land that was home, away from the ice that was settling over what remained of Sweden.

* * *

**December, 1774 – Moscow, Russia **[33]

It was snowing outside, and Ivan was thinking of sunflowers. This was not all that Ivan was thinking of, naturally. He was a large country with many thoughts and interests, and his sisters were with him, which meant that he had many things to think about. Quite a few involved keeping a proper distance from Belarus, because as she grew up, Natalya was beginning to worry him. Other thoughts ambulated toward the plans he had for this evening. Toris was going to be cooking tonight, and Ivan had to apologize for the way he had crushed the most recent personal rebellion.

His little mouse was so sweet and kind when Ivan apologized for what Toris made him do. He became like butter and soft warm bread fresh from Katyusha's ovens. It was a crime not to eat up every crumb of that bread. A crime not to hold Toris down and take all that he was offering. Really, Ivan almost could not wait until the next time he was forced to punish Toris, and they could begin the reconciliation process all over again.

But mostly, Ivan thought of sunflowers, looking at the white whirling flakes. There were sunflowers embroidered into the heavy drapes framing the window, and they were such a cheerful yellow color. Ivan liked yellow. It made him happy, and he liked being happy.

Yellow was also _her_ color. Ivan would have to admit that he was a little in awe of her. Women always seemed like such powerful mysterious creatures. With open hearts that could suddenly slam closed like tiger traps, or remain open and free forever, or do so much that it made his head spin. Men did not have hearts. Ivan was not sure what he had, but it was not a heart, per se. He had to borrow his from Katyusha (and she, marvelous woman, simply gave it to him, knitting it up inside the new scarves he received each time the old one developed holes).

Maybe that was what was wrong with Natalya? Had he and Katyusha forgotten to give her a heart when they were putting her together, stitching up a little sister as one would stitch up a rag doll? [34] The theory made sense, but it troubled Ivan. If he was to blame for the false make of Belarus, then why did he not know how to fix her?

"Vanya," sweeping in a butter yellow dress, his adored Catherine approached the window. Somewhere outside in the storm church bells tolled the hour of midnight mass. "I apologize for the lateness of the hour."

He smiled at the apology. "I am Russia, majesty. I work as the hours need me," he bowed to the golden figure.

She laughed heartily, beckoning Ivan to come to the warm red carpeted study. He followed obediently, shutting the door after himself. "You wished to talk to me about the peasants?"

Fiddling with gloved hands, Ivan tried to compose himself. She was his leader. She was sunflowers. She was heart. She was not going to like this. "They are hungry. They are tired. Surely the words of-of, the French one, V—," Ivan's fingers made circles of confusion as he tried to remember the strange name. "Voltaire mean something?"

The mouth that was made for quiet assured smiles pursed in thought. Her hands, long sleeves weighty with lace against the cold, walked distractedly over the great desk behind which she ran the Empire. Ivan felt the weight of that lace dragging down her capable wrists like manacles. His nobles, and their power. His peasants, and their desperate wants. Him, Russia, the land trapped and tortured by long winter.

The fire in the great fireplace snapped and crackled. It gave them both yellow light. The light that made him happy. The fire worked into the knots riddling old logs, and cast small explosions among them like cannon fire. It lit Catherine.

At last she nodded to herself. "Vanya, some sacrifices have to be made so that I might make Russia the power of the world. Do you wish for England to have that title? My husband tried his hardest to give it to Prussia. You were so thankful when we finally got rid of Peter. It was a sacrifice that we had to make for the betterment of the empire." [35]

Ivan nodded, his mouth pulling at a tightly mild smile. Somewhere from his scarf, maybe, he had to dredge some understanding. For Catherine. Still, maybe they were not talking about the same thing. "Yes. Yes, but I am Russia. When the serf cries out in the night, because his wife is taken from his side, I hear it. I feel it when they dig through my crust to bury their children. What is happening hurts them, badly. And I know this."

"Do you?" Catherine asked quietly. "Ivan, tell me, for the sake of clarity, if you felt their pain, they would react to yours, right?"

Kindly eyebrows over mirroring eyes furrowed with uncertainty. "I have been told so."

"Stab yourself with the paper knife," the Empress instructed calmly.

Russia felt bewildered. His Catherine. His sunflower. His Empress. "Why, your majesty?"

Those weighty hands picked up the gleaming silver, and handed it to him, handle first. "To demonstrate the fallacy of the argument, Ivan. Please. It does not have to be a deep wound. Merely noticeable."

Ivan nodded. This was Catherine. She would not do him wrong. She was like Peter who brought people to him, and she loved yellow, and made him happy. Silver was the color of steel. Steel hurt. But it was not wrong. There was nothing wrong in the hurt. Just pain. So obviously, this was all okay. Ivan smiled at his ruler. "I am sorry if I made a mess on the carpet. Yes. So, what is the point?"

The small blade was handed back across the desk. Handle first, because the point was sharp and red. Catherine accepted it. She wiped the blood off absently, a side effect of their lives. "Ivan, what happened?"

"I hurt my hand."

Those kind blue eyes gazed at him, their wisdom deep. _Please continue_.

"Nothing else. My hand hurts now. It's a little like fire."

"Are the people who live in you on fire?" Catherine asked.

Shaking his beige head, Ivan tried to keep the firm axe of his nose between him and the dawning light of understanding. Understanding was cream colored, and that was not as strong and good as warm wheat yellow.

"Then, are they wounded in some way?"

No more than they every had been. Ivan shook his head.

Rising from her comfortable chair, the gorgeous Catherine adjusted her steel gray wig with confidence. "Ivan, understand that you are an angel, darling, but what you are has no connection to these people you speak of. The nation is in the land. In the valleys, and trees. In the large stands of wheat, and the summer poppies. You are confused, because they work so closely with you. But there are more of them, Ivan. They are just the workers. There will always be more workers."

She was right. She was right. He was wrong, and hearing what she said wrongly, because she was right, and it was okay. He smiled magnificently.

"I will go bandage my hand now."

"Russia is a great country, Vanya," Catherine told him, nodding her pretty round face, which was kind like Katyusha's. "You will survive this."

He smiled, firelight winking red in his deeply purple eyes _Imperial purple now _and walked out of the office. The idea of Toris' cooking preyed on his mind. Toris' cooking was not like Katyusha's cooking. It was simple in a different way. Because Toris was a man, and had no heart, which was why he did not cook like Katyusha, who put all her heart into the process. Katyusha. Yekaterina. Katerina. Catherine. Who loved yellow, like the sunflowers. Who wanted Ivan to be happy.

In the woodshed, one of them, connected to the palace by the servants' kitchen, Ivan found himself looking at knotted wood that exploded in glorious gouts of flame and rising sparks. Like Poland always promised he would. Ivan really hoped that Poland would do so. He hated Poland, because Poland made Toris want to be somewhere else. Poland, heartless and perverse, tried to trick Toris into thinking that he had a heart. Heartless, perverse, and a trickster. A god of tricks and stratagems.

He hated tricks and lies and heartless perversions. Katerina. Yekaterina. Catherine. Katyusha. Picking up a shovel, he thought of his older sister, who loved him _not like little Natalya, but proper woman love that came from a heart made of natural things_, and his Empress, who loved him, and how much blood there was on the ground between them. Not because of them. Never because of them. But between them, where ideologies clashed as they guided their little Vanya through life.

He felt happy. Orangey-yellow happy, like a sunflower bursting into flame. Katyusha had never really explained humans to him. Now his Katerina had, and he knew everything he needed. He was _not_ The People, some disturbing nebulous term that depraved countries waved before themselves like flags of white and red and black. He was the land. Humans were humans, and there were always more of them to fill his ground.

Taking the shovel, he started to beat his wounded hand with both the flat and the blade, just to see what would happen. Ivan could ask Katyusha to bandage it up later with her heart.

* * *

**January, 1814 – Kiel, Holstein**

Denmark whistled happily. He did everything happily, and his whistling was no different. It was just a piece of paper. It was just a piece of paper. Hell, this time there was no cellar, and there was no Spain—just an endless supply of Francis, unfortunately—this time it was just a piece of paper. Everything nice and neat, with calligraphy, and everything.

'Hans Majeƒtät Konungen af Dannemark …' [36] Matthias could not read the rest. Not today. Hadn't they agreed that they would remain neutral? So he was an _armed_ neutral party. He was _always_ armed. He was Kongeriget Danmark.

Papers scattered in the air as he threw them to heaven in glee, whipping out his axe with a savage joy. The sheets descended though a cold blue sky—surprise, it was not raining! Today was a good day—the wind tossing them around as it howled from a far off ocean. But no matter how the wind tore and raged at the paper, the whumm of the axe hit the pathetically neat rectangles first.

Denmark was smiling as the shreds of white fell around him. He was laughing as the shreds of white fell around him. He was Kongeriget Danmark, so why wouldn't he laugh? Loud and long.

Leaning against the nearby church, his breath streaming out in the raw January air, Arthur watched. Denmark turned his feral grin on the little lion, all tarted up in his city clothes, a short, silly hat balanced on his head to show off his 'look at me, I'm no longer a crazy pirate, you can trust me as an international mediator' curled hair.

"You know that you're just making more work for the printers," Arthur pointed out, waving a sharp cane at the fallen paper ribbons.

Denmark snarled, crossing the square in quick strides, his red great coat billowing in the wind. "You—aren't you supposed to be kicking some French ass somewhere?"

"I'm on break," Arthur began patting his pockets, looking for snuff, probably. "Also, your southern neighbors are terrified that you're going to snap, and take the land with you this time. As your most recent conqueror, I am here to see that scenario is not played out."

Holding his sides, Denmark began to laugh once more. There had been a reason why laughter had once been associated with the devil. This was it, wasn't it? Because he could make you laugh and laugh in the face of weakness, and _defeat_. "There's no way Preussen and Rhinen Forbund [37] said that."

Elegant shoulders hidden by the coachman's artificial layers of mini capes, perfect for his rainy country, lifted in a shrug. "I paraphrased. Gilbert said that he thought you were going to go Viking on us all, and he was staying out of your _direct_ line of sight until you'd done everyone a favor and gone off."

"He's probably too busy getting fucked by Francis over a barrel," Denmark muttered.

Arthur just smirked. "Trust me, you cursed old wolf, I would not be here if I did not feel that Gilbert had everything under control. As for Prussia's sexual habits, I wouldn't dare to venture a speculation, but the war is won. Francis doesn't realize it yet."

Shaking his flyaway head, Denmark finally took off his round cap of royal crimson. "Never thought there'd be a day when _Francis_ of all people was less prudent than me. There's Denmark, they say, isn't he the one who doesn't know when to quit? Instead it's Francis who's gone mad. Francis and his sneaky diplomats, and his eff-ed up idea of leadership. Oh, and I completely blame you and your glorious revolution for putting this notion in Francis' head in the first place. Just so you know, Arthur."

England frowned for a moment, his bars of eyebrows coming together. "I have no idea what you're talking about. You've been drinking, haven't you?" [38]

"Copious amounts," Denmark agreed. "C'mon, little lion, you know me; when am I not drinking?"

Staring at him, Arthur then swung the cane into his chest with a hiss of cut air. "Normally, you're a happy drunk, Denmark."

Baring brilliantly white incisors, Denmark pointed at his muscle pulling cheeks. "Can't you see this smile?"

"Of course I can, you bloody git! Get that out of my face this instant!" England tried to jump back, but this was a hard task when one had already decided to lean against fired brick. He ended up in a sort of sideways shamble, arrested by Denmark's helping hand.

"'Sokay, little lion," the older country replied, before looking at the scudding clouds overhead. "I'm not gonna eatcha."

Dusting off his long great coat self importantly, Arthur had time for a wry expression. "The last time I saw _that_ smile was not a pleasant experience, Dane. Now, are you going to do us all the favor Gilbert predicts, or are you going to say good-bye like a gracefully deposed ruler?"

Fingers gripped the haft of the axe tightly. One good swing could make this right. "What about option three where I take off Sverige's head, and Russia's all at the same time, and then go off after France's vital regions? Would that work for you?"

"You wouldn't get past the initiation of step one," England replied seriously. "Remember: we all saw how you were found. I don't think that this treaty is going to make you any more capable of taking Sweden on in his state."

Denmark tore his eyes away from the lovely sky blue. "So you take Norge from me to appease his fury? Like some sacrifice to Ymir?"

England decided that it would be politic to disengage his arm from physical contact with the weakened kingdom. Just as a person, Matthias could be very strong, and while he had every confidence in Gilbert, Arthur still wanted to have unbroken arms at the end of this treaty signing. It would be embarrassing to taunt Francis with a limb in a sling. Though Arthur supposed he could do a fine mocking routine of the Frog's falling leader. Hmm. He'd have to think about it. Still, that was not worth the potential injury.

"You'll be getting a few new territories [39]. Aren't you the crazy one who _wants_ to have more undisciplined chaos in his house, waving muskets and shouting about throwing your tea in the sink?"

Denmark spared a sympathetic glance at Arthur. The eyebrows laden boy was going to be holding onto that one for years, he thought. What a wonderful demonstration of how not to do it. He should take the example, and run. Run and forget that this ever happened. God damnit. Just God damnit.

Suddenly both hands were on the black wood pole. With a frustrated scream that stopped all activity in the bustling street, the massive axe head swung high in the air, and slammed into the cobble stones, splitting through them into the cold, frozen earth. Extending his senses down for a moment, Denmark pushed himself into the mother soil, like a diver into water. Holsten land recognized and welcome him, willingly bridging him up to Copenhagen, and then he extended himself north. He had never been the kind to do this. Matthias liked to feel the physicality of a land under his feet, but if these were the last moments that he could do this without an invasion, he'd take them.

The foreign country jumped into his ghostly project with all his might, running his mind over the land. God. Norway had been _carved_. Matthias had always known this, had felt it every time he stepped foot on the shore, but it was still a shock that such hard and unforgiving stone could be slashed through by sharp water, turned over, mutilated by moving ice, and ripped through by a sea, and still come out breathtakingly grand.

Norway had _mountains_. They rose and fell in chains of solidified waves, sharp spumes cutting at the sky, and deep troughs slicing through the earth. There were volcanoes. There was coldness, bitter at the heart of everything, coming down in sheets from the sky in the inland, blowing off the ocean on the coast. Now what plants were tough enough to survive were sleeping under the cold, but Denmark could feel the potential lurking, ready to burst into hardy life as soon as the winter passed. The giant stands of trees that were the source of Norway's wealth waited expectantly for spring and harvesting and cutting and planting. The wheat that kept the bloody minded people fed slumbered, waiting knowledgeably for the time when the earth itself was gloriously alive.

Denmark danced through it all one last time, running against the rushing, coursing rivers and streams that burst in spectacular cataracts to the west, and led him to deep lakes covering the ice scars. It was Norge. His people were not an after thought, but they were so few compared to this elder power of _Land _that Denmark danced through them in seconds, laughing to himself as he felt their excited independent pride, and the powerful knowledge that they had of Norway, and of the earth, and of each other, and by union they had been his. By blood they had been his. Intermingled and nearly forgotten, but it had been there, all right. Tani and Sami. Wind and earth. Earth that had been carved out by water, that was as immovable as stone—yet his very rocky foundations proved that stone was not only movable, to the right sculptor, it was as soft as wet clay.

Denmark had not been the right sculptor, and so, bowing to a people who did not see him, and a land that proudly ignored his delighted voyeurism, he exited, dancing back to his land, reeling into Holsten, and just streaming up the wooden handle that Norge had given him long ago. With a bitter smile, he let go, shoulders slumping. He had an audience in the real world, too. One he hated to disappoint.

"What the Hell am I supposed to do, lille løve [40]? Just what the hell, Arthur, am I supposed to do? Toss aside 417 years and say 'forget me,' or what? And you know the worst part? He would. Just cast off all those years, because he never needed me, not really, and we both knew it, but I made too good a scapegoat not to keep around."

Arthur, having rubbed feeling back into his extracted his arm during this speech, pinched the bridge of his nose in despair. "Dear God, maudlin drunk. Hey! My shoulder is not your personal handkerchief!"

"'M not using it that way," Denmark muttered as his forehead rested against the much shorter man's much shorter shoulder. "I've got a bit of a raging headache to go along with the rest."

"My shoulder is not your personal pillow, either!"

In response, Denmark wrapped long arms around Arthur, pinning his elbows to his sides in a spine popping bear hug. The younger nation struggled and thrashed angrily, making the Dane smile to himself. Just like the old days. His mind gently marinating in mead, and Arthur trying to spit him alive for being on his precious shoreline. Why couldn't things be this simple again? Of course, they couldn't, and Denmark knew that. Arthur had shown the way really. You can't go back, even after a restoration wipes your mind. Because everyone else remembers.

A cough that was not amused echoed from behind him. Guiltily Denmark dropped Arthur in an undignified heap, and turned on quick heels to see Norway standing there, looking austere in a dark blue jacket and buff trousers.

"I have been informed by Island that he doesn't want to see you, and if you show up at his house, he'll set Mr. Puffin on you," the cold nation informed his former partner. Those blank eyes refused to look at Denmark, and instead settled on a point over his right shoulder. "Personally, I have no desire to make a scene."

Denmark chuckled wetly. "Ha. You really got crappy luck then. I'm terrible at saying good bye without a scene. Just ask Artie. We had to conquer the east half of his island, and mix in our language, just so he'd always think of us fondly before I'd be willing leave." [41]

Norway said nothing, trying, it seemed to Denmark, to make his heart explode with the intense ferocity of his eyes alone. Opening his mouth, and shutting it again, the Dane finally smiled ruefully. "So, um, want me to tell a joke? I've got some good ones. I promise you've never heard them before."

The eyes had dulled, and flattened. Norway was overly familiar with Danish humor. "I doubt it."

"C'mon, my Timber Prince [42]. Please? I know you've been looking for a breath of fresh air that doesn't contain me, but one last joke for old times' sake?" Denmark wheedled, stepping close enough that he could grab Norway's arm if the fiercely aloof nation chose to turn away.

Considering his options, and seeing that Danmark had absolutely no snakes or amphibians to hand, Norway allowed a tight nod of his head.

The excitable nation leaned in, and whispered: "This is just between the two of us, 'cause it'll drive Artie nuts trying to figure it out, and that's hilarious, right?"

Norway nodded again, probably wondering if he was about to hear a joke about how much more fun blond nations had. Danmark had only told 93 of those so far.

"Jeg elsker deg," Denmark's voice rolled into his ear like a questing wave of the sea. The former king stood back, lips tight around his smile. "Well, Norge? Bet you found that perfectly hilarious, didn't you? Just in case you needed something to help you laugh off the doom and gloom cloud that Sverige lives in, you can remember me being stupid and ridiculous like that."

Norway met Denmark's eyes. "Yes. Yes, I suppose I can. I'm—I—it took you a long time to tell me that one. I don't have a joke in return."

The one sided smile hurt. "No. I didn't think you would. You're so serious all the time, Norge. Learn to live a little. Give Sverige Hell! You know I'll want to hear about it in a nice, long-winded ballad, or saga one winter, and then where'll you be, if you haven't done something epic worthy? I'll probably break down the door, and start another war, just to get you annoyed enough to do something."

"I will endeavor to be—_difficult_," and for once, a grim, hard smile broke through the empty expanse of safety that Norway encouraged on his physical being, "After all, you have a distressing habit of losing when you break down doors up North. I would hate to see that."

Gifted with a small hint of Norwegian humor, Denmark enjoyed the full extent of it, laughing and slapping his knee. Behind the two, Arthur, who did not understand the Scandanavias _at all_, and refused to do so, crossed his arms. "Well, yes, alright, everything is peachy, and everything, but we do have to get in the church and officially dissolve your union."

That made Denmark's laughter die. He sighed. "All right, Artie. Short live Sweden-Norway, I guess."

Norge nodded emphatically. Maybe Denmark could help distract Sweden, somehow. Or work on getting a reunification right under that stern nose.

The three walked around to the back of the church, leaving the huge black axe to cleave the street.

* * *

**February 1814 – Solna, Sweden**

Another crash, explosive, violent, tore through the night. On the top of west wing of the Karlberg Palace, Norway leaned into a snow covered chimney. Honestly, there were children sleeping. Could they just not hear the destruction being wrought on the ground floor? Woe to them as military cadets, then.

Perhaps Sweden had removed himself from the totally human world, and placed himself in an in between place before he started to destroy the nearest piece of physical reality that he could. Which was the proper thing to do, when one had located himself at a military academy where young men learned their skills, and young ladies learned to sew.

With an angry 'whump' something new rocked the building. That made Norway stand, and cast about for the window he had crawled from in order to get to the roof top. If this place burned down, that would be a shame for all of the humans trapped inside.

Sprinting along the ice slippery slate, Norway slid on the diagonal, and felt into open space, before grabbing the gutter with strong hands. Dangling for a second, he saw the small rectangle from which he had crawled, and lined up his feet before swinging in.

The drop of half a story to the stairwell jarred every bone in his body, but that just made Norway grin internally. He felt more alive when he did things like this. Sweden's rules, for his own good, expressly forbade climbing on the roof among the chimneys and slanted slate. They forbade risking his physical body, as though he was delicate and human. They forbade drinking. They forbade walking on the water of the canals where humans might see. They forbade skipping church. They forbade singing dirty songs. They forbade going anywhere without Sweden nearby, and Sweden was cooped up in this God-awful monstrosity all the time, suffocating the tree-starved, mountain needy Norway.

And the funny thing was, except for the last one, Norway had never had the express desire to do any of these things. Before the rules came crashing down on his head one by one, anyway. Denmark had annoyed him. But that was part of who Denmark was. He could have annoyed standing stones. Denmark had annoyed him, and placed Norway at disadvantage within the union, and not having a lot of people, knowing that he would not have much influence anyway, Norway had gone along with it, telling himself that he was waiting for the moment when it was right, when he was strong enough to leave on his own. Not like Sweden, dragging Finland after him, but alone, forcing no one else to take his path unless they chose to, for themselves.

Denmark had annoyed him, but he had not told Norway that it was for his own good. Setting off down the hall, Norway was glad that he had centuries of training under the most trying circumstances to keep his face barren as his arctic desert.

Taking steps two at a time, Norway jumped the last four stairs entirely, twisting to the right. The door at the end of the hall exploded outward in a shower of splinters, and Sweden stood there, panting heavily, large fist dripping blood. Glaring blearily at the remains of the door, and then Norway, he ripped off his glasses, and stumped back into his room.

Norway waited for a moment, reigning his coiling and writhing irritation by candlelight. The shadows of the hallway, of Sweden's hallway, wrapped chokingly around his throat and face. He swiped them away with a wave of his hand. Coattails flying behind him, the shorter nation strode into the sanctum of the taller one.

The room looked as though a full keg of gun powder had gone off. Maps lovingly tacked to the walls, depicting dominions that Sweden had visited and most of the time then conquered, had been ripped from their places. Blue and gold cloth shreds explained why there were bare poles on the walls that had once held flags. A chair had been split in half, a hand hatchet still quivering in the floor beneath it. The desk had been overturned. Long broad sweeps of a sword had devastated the wooden paneling of the walls.

In the center of the chaos, Sweden was rooting through the spilled books and papers of a staved in chest. Rolls of paper appeared, and over the trash littered floor, Sweden unrolled each piece, carefully arranging a broken sextant here, and an empty rum bottle here, displaying to him the bright colors of more maps, and battle plans.

Norway, dreading what he was going to see, peered over the plain shoulder of the Swede. Russia. The glory of the vast empire strained upward from a curling map. Only this was not the Russia of the current times. Ivan was _much_ bigger now.

"These are from 1700, Sweden," Norway commented.

The bloodshot gaze did not leave the lines of paper armies. Fingers lovingly roved the old Swedish border with the steppes and forests of Finland nearly caressing them in return. But it was just paper, and this was just fantasy. "'Ll r'w'rk 'em." [43]

Norway drew a breath. Not even at his post-Kalmar worst had Denmark been this focused and deranged. Certainly, there had been multiple obsessed invasions of Sweden, but it was not as though those plans had been drawn from sheer impossibility. They had been made from whole cloth, rather than discarded ideas from a century ago. Stale beer wound around the apartment, tainting everything.

This was bad for the union. And what was bad for the union was bad for Norway, always the damn junior partner. He could feel the rage of his people beginning to scream in frustration, as news of Kiel slowly made its way back. Some of them were calculating. Others were pulling out the manifestos that France had liberally scattered around the place in the wake of the Revolution. Maybe in the morning, Norway would walk down to the harbor, and ask the nearest American how one got a hold of their silly little Constitution that held a great deal more sense than Sweden's vandalized room with hatred and paint peeling off the walls. This was not the time. So, put Sweden to bed, get this cleaned up sometime before he awoke again, and try to get him back on a vaguely normal track.

Norway refused to be second for a former world power going mad. He had done it before, and quite frankly, Matthias was not as objectionable as Sweden.

"Sweden, it's time to go to bed."

No response. The giant remained crouched over the old battle plans, staring bleakly at Sweden's eastern border.

"Bed, Sweden."

Blood shot, bright blue eyes swiveled towards him. "W'ves d'n't tell h'sb'nds wh't t' d'," the elder slurred in exhausted certainty of the order of things. He continued to hunch over his map, the flickering lights of candles chasing his big shadow all over the sheet. "'Ve got 'n 'vasion t' pl'n."

Norway reached out to physically haul Sweden to his feet. His hand was knocked away, as though Sweden was batting away a fly. Standing silently, Norway felt a growing pressure in his head. One last try. One last try to save the union from whatever road that Sweden was wandering. Norway had no idea why he was bothering. For old times sake, perhaps, for when Sweden was Sverige, and not an iron weight around his neck, dragging him under the water.

The pressure built in his head. Cold and powerful, it curled and bloomed like clouds. Like clouds before a storm. Norway's barren face showed not a hint of a smile. This was it, the change in the weather he had been preparing for, and now, because this was not Danmark, he wanted to hold it back. He wanted to get his bearing in the union before choosing to reject it (_or not_, the small coward's voice whispered, desperate to cling to the familiar. Europe had gotten so much bigger and more complicated since he had last lived in the center of the storm all alone).

One last try. Play to Sweden's weaknesses. It didn't matter what happened to Norway, as long as the stronger of the two got to bed somehow.

How did Finland do it? In feather touches, with a sweetness that was never Norway's. But an empty face was simply begging for a mask, correct? Closing his frozen eyes for a moment, Norway opened them once more, their gaze no longer dragon flat, but bird bright. His mouth was no longer a thin line out of which words might issue to slap someone, but a pair of soft willing lips. The blank arrogance erased itself from eyebrows, smoothing away the critical lines of the forehead.

Placing a light hand on Sweden's shoulder, Norway leaned down, his breath softly caressing the chosen ear like the waving stalks of summer wheat. "Swe—Sverige, please, this will all be here in the morning. Come to bed," his voice almost purred, hovering between innocent and enticing.

For a moment, Sweden clearly did not register the invitation. Then his bloody, large hand came down on Norway's wrist, crushing it.

"Ah! Sverige!" the cold nation made his exterior tremble with uncertainty. This was what Sweden liked, wasn't it? Being more powerful, and taking what he desired from the weaker? "This h-h-hurts. Wh-what are you doing, Su—,"

"Finish. That. Sentence. And. You. Die," Sweden pushed himself to his feet, each word a slow hard statement of fact. Whirling suddenly on Norway, the lion stared down with burning blue eyes. "H'w d're y'? D' y' th'nk 'm monst'r?" He shook Norway by the wrist like a rag doll, making the nation's neck snap back and forth. "Y' th'nk th't 'll I w'nt's w'rm b'dy in m'bed? Y' th'nk th't's wh't T'no was t' me? 'R 're y' j'sta wh're?" the snarling features assessed Norway, looking the blond nation up and down. "Danm'rk r'quire y'r _sp'cial_ 'ttention wh'n h's dr'nk?"

Thinking of bad Danish jokes, and centuries of union for the protection from the international stage, the attempts to look like anything other than empty, barren Norway dropped from the nation's face at the words. "No. He doesn't need me for anything. I'm just someone convenient to blather to, and occasionally make certain his crown doesn't fall in the jakes when he does get hungover. I thought that it would be safer for both me and the furniture if you turned your sick obsession on my body, Sweden."

The huge man threw Norway into the upturned desk. Grabbing a long sword from within the ruins of a bookshelf, the giant advanced furiously on his new partner. "D'nchu _d're_ pr'tend t' b' T'no."

The storm coiled around Norway in screaming fury. "This isn't what a union is about, Sweden!"

Flashing from the winking illumination, the sword rose. "'Ll th'se tim's wit' Danmr'k 'ttackin' me w're jus' h's way 'f sayin' n'ce hair cut, th'n? 'Course t'is wh't union is."

The sword came down. The storm lashed from Norway's fingertips, slamming a gray funnel cloud directly into Sweden's chest. The ancient nation was knocked three stumbling paces back, and Norway managed to rise, tall, thin, bewitching. His hands crackled with the essence of who he was, storm and earth all at once. No cute fairies, or trolls. Just the raging heat from under a volcano, and within lightning.

"If this," contemptuous light licked toward the deranged maps, and reckless plans to get Finland returned to Sweden, "is your union, Sweden, I reject it."

The sword came around again, blocking the door. This was not Austria, unversed in the life of the battle field, and the ways of the older, primal times. Sweden had been at Denmark's side long before the two discovered wild Norway living with his land. He knew the capacities of the self-isolated young man, and he knew equally well that his abilities had been diminished both by long union with Denmark, and the general human disbelief in the unseen world.

Norway ignored all of these disadvantages as he thought of them. Releasing the lightning with a roar, the pathetic room exploded in a shower of white hot light.

The light receded eventually. Sweden had been knocked into the hall by the blast, his sword nothing more than cooling metal drops, and his blue coat burning fibers. Still smoking, the giant nation sat up, rubbing his face. "'Ll occ'py y', Norge," the man growled, despite the fact that his eyes were not focusing. "Y'r m'union partn'r. Y'land, y'resources—th'y're _mine_."

Norway adjusted his cravat, the cloth too tight on his neck, just as his coat was bunching up at his shoulders. The expression he fixed on Sweden was glazed blank, reflecting everything back, like sun glare on snow.

"'S long 's I need 'em t' get Tino back," Sweden muttered, swaying.

With a snort of disgust, Norge turned away. "You should go to bed, _Sweden_. Jeg er uavhengig. Norge, uavhengige. [44]"

He walked away from Sweden, from union, and stood on his own in the grim February night. This was what it always should have been. Ready and willing, Norway walked into the breaking storm.

* * *

**June 1941 – Upper New York State, America**

It was hot. America was happy to be there, working in the sun. On another hillside cows were mooing contentedly as they browsed. It was _good_ to have a day like this. Too many in recent years had been out in the horrifying dust of Oklahoma, or following people out to California, trying to keep their spirits high as his withered on the vine.

Today, though, he had decided to not worry about the market, and the people in pain, and just help in a good old fashioned way that probably wouldn't make much of a difference for the rest of the world, but would for this small corner of his country. Sometimes you had to do that.

On the top rail of a fence, New York was taking a break, leaning on the post, and waving his tiny straw panama. On the other side of the fence, because New York refused to deal with it otherwise, Vermont's voice came out as a series of piping wood thrush calls. Alfred did not get any closer. It sounded nice from this distance, his states getting along on a hot early summer afternoon. Had he been close enough to hear words, he suspected that Vermont was either going to be complaining about Quebec, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, or New York, himself. That kind of thing tended to happen, even outside of DC, where Alfred forced them to talk to one another about things which made them disagree. It was the only way forward, after all.

Unfortunately, the furrow was almost fully tilled, and that meant that Alfred was able to pick up a stray word here and there. "... Canada asked _me_. He is so polite, unlike some ... his grabby province ... he here yet?"

The plow halted in consternation. New York, under the glowering eyebrows that said exactly who had more influence than necessary in his growth into statehood, glanced back at Alfred with his unsympathetic Harlem brown eyes. "You _know_ Alfred has been trying to avoid him, Vermont."

The second smallest state in New England stamped a tiny foot. "Don't take that tone with me, Lex! Someone asked me politely, and I gave them an answer."

"There's a war on in Europe, and you know that's all Canada is here for," New York shook his head at the childish naivete his neighboring state, and pain in the neck, was displaying.

"I trust Canada," Vermont maintained belligerently, fixing the zucchini blossom that it was currently using as a hat more firmly on the short brown hair. "He even said that he liked the taste of my maple syrup. Which means trade negotiations are in the offing!" the genderless state rubbed its tiny hands in evil glee.

New York laced earth brown fingers together, resting an incredulous chin on them. "Vermont, for the _last_ time: You can't deal separately with the _nation_ of Canada! That's Alfred's job. Or the full fifty, after _thorough_ deliberation. Not you. Especially because you _can't_ deal with Quebec."

"Can, too!"

"You really can't, Vermont. Remember last year? You ran screaming into New Hampshire's house, and hid under her bed."

"He stole my maple leaf and declared it part of the British Commonwealth! [45] How was I supposed to know he couldn't _actually_ declare war on Alfred because I punched him in the nose? I don't want my _hat_ to cause a war!"

"Exactly," New York pointed out, running his fingers through sweat dampened chestnut brown strands. "You don't want to get us embroiled in a war, and yet you told the one neighbor you have who _wants_ us to get into a war where Alfred was hiding today?"

"He's being a sissy," Vermont tried, changing track, rather than admit that it was in the wrong. "Anyway, I don't think he's hiding. President Alfred! Are you hiding from Canada? He only just came off convoy duty, and really wanted to see you, and he said none of the others knew where you were, but I remembered that you promised Lex you'd help get some of his fields plowed—not that there aren't _other_ agriculture states _in the area_ who couldn't also use the assistance—so I told him where you were."

One day, Alfred grimaced, he was going to figure out how to get Massachusetts to give up his friendship with Vermont, and then he was going to sell it to the first nation who wanted it. Or the first Canadian province. Neither New York, or New Hampshire would miss it very much.

Still, that did leave the charge of 'sissy' to be answered. Alfred F. Jones was not a sissy, and he most certainly was not hiding from his brother. "Don't be silly, little green mountain," Alfred smiled. "I'll be happy to receive Matt when he shows up. But I've got to be back in Washington, soon. So I might not be able to stay as long as I expected."

"I'll be happy to join you on the train back, then."

Hearing his twin's voice, Alfred swung around, dropping the plow entirely. "Gahhhh! Matt, don't _do_ that!"

The blond, who had not changed from a long waterproof coat and wool cap, both of which looked too hot for the weather, appeared to be innocently surprised. "Do what, Alfred?"

"Sneak up on me," Alfred glanced at the fence, where Vermont was grinning. He turned back to Canada, not hiding a firm frown. "And," he added in a low whisper, "use my own states against me. That was low, Mattie. Especially Vermont. That one loses a whole generation each time I get involved in a rumble, and it isn't as though it was easy to find people willing to farm rocks all their lives in the first place [46]."

Matt just stared at Alfred for a few seconds too long. Then a bright smile slid over his face like a mask. "C'mon, you've gotta go change to catch a train, don't you?"

Alfred let his brother steer him towards New York's lovely white colonial farm house. He allowed it because that expression had deeply troubled him. Matt looked hollow. Europe had a nasty habit of changing you—Alfred still had no clear grasp of what he had been thinking during the twenties. It had just been such a relief to _let it all go_, and explode into energy and action that only had to do with death if he got too close to Italy Romano's various apartments in Chicago, Boston and New York. He was still pretty certain that Southern Italy _owned_ most of Rhode Island.

Another good reason not to go to war. He did not need to have to sort out the Italians and Germans from the rabbled mass of his people, just to catch the potential spies—Boston alone would go up like a powder keg, if things came down to it, and Alfred did not even want to think about what that would do to New York, who would inevitably feed off Massachusetts' pain before getting kicked in the teeth himself. America had no idea how Arthur did it—not that he cared, really. England was miles away, and had better stay there—given the numbers of Germans that had emigrated to Britain after the first great mess. The quiet Asian nationalities would at least be easy to tell apart from the rest, if he needed to, but Alfred could not imagine anything bad coming from them. Kiku was an honorable man. Alfred remembered that when he was testing out his navy last century.

They stepped into the cool house, and America quickly stripped out of his undershirt, feeling sweaty. Peeking outside through the kitchen window, Alfred grabbed a popcorn ball from the refrigerator. "Help yourself to anything," he told Canada automatically, leaning against the counter, letting the wood bite comfortably into his lower back.

How did the states manage when he wasn't there? he mused idly, thinking of short New York running around this kitchen, struggling with one of the apples from the root cellar, which had to be at least one fifth his size, if not one fourth.

But then again, New York and Vermont had made off with tuns of gunpowder together in the 1770s, and Massachusetts had eagerly defended his right to captain the ships sailing out of his harbors, and protest tea taxes with the best grand scheme Alfred had ever participated in without thinking it up entirely on his own, despite only having a hand span's worth of height on Vermont. So they probably managed all right.

Until Alfred got their people into real trouble. Sometimes that was unavoidable, but in this instance the war could not be anywhere nearly as bad as they said. Matt was with Arthur, and they were going to win. Alright, so Alfred wished that he could just charge in, and save everyone, but his last tour in Europe had taught him better. Much better. He wasn't going to watch as quiet, solemn Maine poured blood from her mouth all over a battle field, and then walk straight into a land mine when going to rescue New Hampshire. He was not going to smile, and tell Vermont to buck up, as the little creature faded in a bed with tuberculosis hanging over it, only to get up and trot around outside, crying out for Massachusetts, who was far off screaming in glee as he sank with a German submarine that was never going to surface because he was on board, sabotaging the equipment. Maryland, with her flyaway hair and sparkling green eyes was not going to have any more nightmares about killing people in hospitals with the bombs that she dropped, and he was not going to have any more nightmares about anti-aircraft fire shooting down her planes.

Matt, who he had forgotten was in the room, crunched into an apple, his hollow cheeks filling out for the first time in months. "I keep forgetting how much abundance we have," Canada mused quietly. "You haven't said: 'welcome back to the continent. How was your trip? Is there anything you need?'"

Alfred held out three fingers, curling the first one, as he answered: "What's the point of welcoming you back when we both know that you're going right back out, after you've failed to convince me that I should risk the well being of my states for a bunch of psychotic Europeans who I can't find with a road map?"

Matt's face lost its euphoria with the well preserved apple, and became the kind of blank that said that Alfred had really hit a nerve, but Canada was going to be too polite to mention it. "Well, it's because it's what brothers do, I suppose. You know—I know it doesn't mean much to you, but Francis has been occupied for almost a year now. I mean, after your Revolution you two weren't close, or anything. But it was kind of nice for me—seeing him and Arthur working together for a while there. It was sort of like things would work out, and after the war there might even be some hope."

Alfred refused to let the guilt work on him. He'd just feel worse if he joined them now. Canada and England had it under control, anyway. "Two," he continued, as though he had not heard Matt's statements, "I don't need to ask how your trip was. You're in the middle of a war, Mattie. It's not as though you've got stories of roses and chocolates to give me."

Matt's eyes crinkled in one of his special little smiles that said the reason for the mirth had nothing to do with amusement. The undersides of his eyelids were purple with fatigue. Alfred could have counted the veins there, if he had wanted. "Actually, I do. I was in France for a moment, and had some time to look around, during the evacuations. Met Papa there, all twitching. He gave me some chocolate—you any idea how long it's been since I've seen real chocolate, Alfred?—talking about how a pretty blond boy like me shouldn't be concerned for social deviants, and the like. You know, the regular pleasantries you make when you're infected with Nazism.

"I'm sure it's a disease. Like small pox. Because if it isn't, then it means I'm _fighting_ him, too, and I know I'm Arthur's subject, and Francis has done horrible things, but he has given me a lot, and he even remembers me, still, some times, and I do not want to fight him. He tried to shoot me, by the way. I'm the better shot, though. I'm sure that he would have regretted it, afterward, if he had succeeded in killing me. The chocolate was really good," Matt continued, his lilac eyes glazed in a face of porcelain, while Alfred hummed as he tried to tune out the shattered rambling.

"When I got back to London, I guess I was a bit surprised to see Francis there, too. I can't imagine what it must be like to be so physically disgusted with yourself that you split in two. But he gave me a rose as a thank you for shooting his mirror, as he put it. Not that the Vichy Laws will stay dead for long," Matt licked at apple juice delicately. "So, chocolate and roses, brother."

Alfred cleared his throat, the last finger curling down. "Thirdly; I ask you that, and you're going to say that you want my army, air force, and navy. Which I'm not going to give you. First off, I don't have enough men in there for your needs, and—,"

Matt threw the apple at him. It exploded in white juicy fragments, raining down Alfred's face. "_Shut up_, brother! Do you even see outside of your own house? We're losing. We're losing to the Axis, to Germany's deranged boss, and deranged dreams, to that blond thing that was wearing Francis' face, and voice and hands! Here you are in the sunlight, pretending to be nothing more than a simple farmer. Taking a _day off_.

"Russia is _crushing_ Eastern Europe. Norway fell and we abandoned him! I was at Trondheim with Arthur. I saw—I saw—God, I saw Arthur _choose_ to withdraw. Denmark, I mean, really, the one we were told never to emulate because he was too violent, and we might get in trouble doing it, _fell_. Sweden is just _giving_ the Germans whatever they want, as long as they leave him alone. His—_special_ friend is the _only person in the entirety of Europe_ standing up to Russia. And Arthur says that he has intel from Sweden that Finland is cosying up to the Germans, because we won't—can't help! Alfred. We. Can. Not. Do. Anything. God! I've been _stuck_ on that island with Arthur since Dunkirk. Convoy duty is a relief. You know I drowned last week? I was thinking: At least it'll be easier than dealing with Arthur. He's just locked up in his office all day, drinking. He'd probably drink at night, too, only the Germans are bombing us, now. London's the worst, but you can't sleep anywhere but out in the country.

"They say—I can't believe this—they say that Germany is destroying its undesired populations. Don't _we_ keep promising that we'll stop doing that on our own soil? And we're nothing like Germany. We don't have all that Prussian efficiency running through our veins. It's probably propaganda, but I've been on the soil, and walked the ground, Alfred, and there is something _wrong_ there."

Alfred looked away, searching the ceiling for answers like a school child. New York did not dust against spiders, it seemed. "It's not our problem, Canada. They'll wear themselves out, eventually. And then I'll be there to get everyone to sit down and talk peace, the way it should be. We're safe on this si—,"

"SAFE!" Canada bellowed. "I destroyed a U-Boat in Maine's waters this morning! I'm the only thing that has been keeping you from waking up with Germans pointing their guns at your. Big. Empty. Head. Me and Arthur are _it_, Alfred. Wake up and smell your coffee! Once we crumble, you'll start having to relearn your road maps in German."

Alfred's mouth went small, losing all hints of boyish humor. The afternoon sunlight moved stealthily across the table. "I'm going to be late for my train, Mattie. New York and Vermont will help you get fed, and back out there."

He turned away. Mattie, quiet, whispering Canada, suddenly was screaming. That's what wars did to people. It changed them beyond healthy recognition. He could not get involved.

"Coward! Don't walk away! We need the help, Alfred! Where are all your heroes, anyway?"

Heroes? That was for kids, Matthew. Alfred shook his head, tromping upstairs to find a new shirt.

* * *

**Footnotes and Annotations**

* * *

[1] - Feliks is, being Poland in this era (and any era, really) an exceedingly pious Roman Catholic at heart. Being Polish as the Commonwealth is being formed, and continues to grow culturally through the ages, was really more a matter of rank and religious affiliation. The nobles were Roman Catholic, speaking Polish and Latin, and therefore Polish culturally. The peasants were Eastern Orthodox, and came from the disparate cultures of the Polish-Lithuanian area. Blood ties and cultural ties were not as important as class ties to the society. Through the partitioning, and various attempts to dissolve Poland the Catholic Church has been the site of the cultural maintenance and survival.

[2] - Lithuanian was not an official language of the Commonwealth, which acknowledged the language of almost every other ethnic group in Poland's very large house. However, Feliks is always referring to Toris using Lithuanian rather than Polish, so Jadwiga must have forced Feliks to learn Lithuanian to get closer to his partner.

[3] - At one point in the Jadwiga-Jogaila marriage, the peasants in Poland-Lithuania revolted, what with not having enough food to live on, and all that. Jadwiga, hearing of the plight of her people, snuck food to the peasants, although any contact with them was considered treasonous. This was one of the acts where there were supposedly miracles surrounding what she did. It should be noted that Jadwiga is considered the patron saint of queens, and was canonized by Pope John Paul II.

[4] - 'Kvailas Lietuva' is Lithuanian for 'silly Lithuania,' I hope. I don't actually know Lithuanian.

[5] - 'Lenkija' is Lithuanian for 'Poland.'

[6] - 'Polska' is Polish for 'Poland.'

* * *

[7] - The entire dialogue in the Stockholm scene is taking place in Swedish, rather than the mysterious universal language that I have the countries use normally. This is why Berwald finally sounds natural. He's speaking in a language that he is comfortable with using.

[8] - The House of Vasa was Sweden's Royal house, and technically ends with Gustavus Adolphus. The following monarchs find ways to claim blood relation with the family who made Sweden great.

[9] - This assessment turns out not to be the case, but in 1612 Russia was undergoing its "Time of Troubles" and most nations expected that it would collapse, or just not be the powerhouse that it became.

[10] - The war with the Danes was solved by a peace treaty in 1613 that got the Danish off Swedish land, but stipulated that Sweden pay a war indemnity for the right not to be attacked any more. This was rather typical practice after invading a place: Take money from those who have money through taxes, and then loot the rest to fund the next hostile take over. The war indemnity concept grew out of it. Unfortunately, Sweden's grasp of the 'looting' end of this concept was less sophisticated than Denmark's, as Prussia will discover during the Thirty Years' War.

[11] - Axel Oxenstierna, Gustavus' right hand man, and speaker of parliament. This capable statesman lead Sweden through the time after Gustavus' death, when his daughter took the throne, and then abdicated by converting to Catholicism. Her heir was very young at the time, and Oxensteirna stepped in as regent. It is unlikely that Berwald and he share last names is a coincidence.

* * *

[12] - 'Storbritannien' is Swedish for 'Great Britain.' Thanks to Vellova on dA for correcting the spelling. Berwald is referring to Norway and Denmark's prehistory where they take over Iggy's island. I've been rereading _Summer of the Danes_ by Ellis Peters, so this has been on my mind for a bit (technically SotD is about a later, different invasion, but still Arthur and Matthias have a history). Forgive me. I'm very fond of Denmark-England awkward friendship. Throw Prussia in, and the Fail Brothers give Bad Touch a serious run for the money in enjoyment values.

* * *

[13] - There actually is a 'West Prussia' province at this time. However, adding all of the fractured German States to Prussia's land mass would be considerably awesome enough to warrant a little re-naming among his districts. Technically the German States are still part of the Holy Roman Empire, and will be referred to as such by the silly humans who don't realize that Prussia has been totally awesome and taken in a new nation. Yep. Totally new. Never was part of the poncy Austrian's empire, because, well, Prussia would have to do something about that, if such were the case. Which he isn't, and therefore _obviously_ the German States are something totally new. I'm obviously a Germany is an amnesiac!HRE believer. Prussia may know, but he doesn't want to admit it to himself, and Ludwig's growth spurts have changed his appearance considerably. If cannon disagrees, just like if Denmark and Norway get actual names, I'll go back and edit.

[14] - At this point in history, Prussia is _still_ exceedingly poor from the war that began almost a century ago. The German States are likewise financially strapped, but the northernmost states can rely on Great Britain's Hanoverian King to attempt to bail them out of any difficulties. However, the likelihood that Prussia can pay his own way through a bar crawl with England and Denmark is not high.

[15] - The official final battle of the Thirty Year War happened in 1648, which was the Battle of Prague, but the last truly German related battle happened in Zusmarshausen (the combined French and Swedish armies against those of the Empire), also in 1648. The Spanish were defeated at the Battle of Lens, also 1648, and the Peace of Westphalia, which hashes out most of the niggly details that the various battles had already hashed, was concluded in 1648. It was a busy year.

[16] - And this is why we don't hear a lot about the great Prussian navy.

[17] - The Swedes were not kind to Brandenburg-Prussia, even though it was a nominally Protestant nation/nominal vassal of Poland when they invaded. As mentioned earlier, the typical order of events when you are a great army is to 1. Invade; 2. Loot and freaking pillage, so that the locals can't rise against you; 3. Move in and start administering taxes so that you can go off and begin step one elsewhere. The Swedes were so efficient when it came to step two that step three failed spectacularly when Axel Oxensteirna tried to administer Brandenburg in the Thirty Years' War. It turns out that when you have either killed or raped or stolen everything from every single member of the populace, they just simply _can't_ pay taxes. It was Sweden discovering that it was spending more money on keeping Brandenburg afloat than it was collecting from other invaded areas (keeping in mind that Sweden was not by any means a rich country itself) that they started cracking down on the more Viking-like policies in their armies. Sweden is still responsible for over 50% of the death that the Thirty Years' War caused in Brandenburg alone. This is taking into account the plagues, and famine that occurred as a result of the war. Until the tail end of the Great Northern War, Sweden is not the kind of world power sensible people mess with. And considering the alliance that took it down, Sweden still isn't a power that _sensible_ people mess with.

[18] - The Swiss Confederation had been free of the HRE in everything but name since 1499, and had been acting fairly autonomously since the Federal Charter of 1291 united the three original cantons of the confederacy. Still it took until 1648 for the independence of the Swiss to be formally recognized by the rest of the governments in the world. 150 to 350 years is a long time to be supposedly under the control of an Empire that has to plead for your mercenaries. The Swiss frustration with this state off affairs led them to telling all of the nations who might have a minor interest in Swiss land to go jump in a lake and drown once they gained recognized independence. Then the Swiss went home, and proceeded to break out in civil war.

[19] - 'Nein. Ist total nicht geil. Tak. Ob man einege anfang machen, dann, dann' is German for 'No. It is absolutely not awesome. Tak. If you begin something, then, then.' I only speak conversational German, and so I'm sorry if my version of the German language sounds like an English speaker running a translator through their head. Also, on the insertion of 'tak':

The Duchy of Brandenburg-Prussia was only made into a Kingdom in 1701, and as this is now 1721, Prussia is still trying to integrate his languages. Technically German is the official language of the kingdom, but over three centuries of living on the culturally diverse Polish land will leave their mark. In this case, Prussia has a tendency to punctuate important comments in human languages with the Polish word for 'yes,' 'tak.' I do not speak Polish (well, I can ask for juice, however this does not lead one to a lengthy dialogue about Newtonian physics, unless you _really_ want to go there), but when I hear other people speak it it seems as though 'tak' is used in lieu of sounding out the commas and periods of a sentence. Maybe that's just me. Anyway, I like the idea that Prussia is still in the process of ridding himself of Feliks' influence, so forgive the headcannon.

[20] - Russia invaded the Finland region of Sweden in 1710, and officially occupied it from 1714 to 1721. This little example of the love of Russia is known as the Greater Wrath. The Finns, not the the kind of people who take invasion all that well, started fighting back before the Russian governor could get his seat warm. While many officials had fled to non-occupied Sweden, the peasant population remained, mostly hiding in the woodland, and striking back at Russian forces from there. The Russians did not take very well to this. Besides the regular killing and looting for funds that will enable more killing and looting, which is such a charming staple of European warfare, churches in particular were destroyed and looted, because they were not Eastern Orthodox, and there is nothing like striking at an enemy by taking away the things that give one solace; over 10,000 Finns were enslaved and taken to Russia; a vast scorched earth policy was put in place to prevent Sweden from regaining its lost land; and the peasants who were not quick enough to retreat to the forests were forced to give financial contributions to the occupiers. It should be noted, yet again, however, that the worst years of this happened under the command of a Swedish defector to the Russian cause. This kind of retribution seems to be a particularly Swedish art in the 17th century. Oh, and as usual with this kind of devastation, a plague struck in the middle of the Greater Wrath. Finally, the reason that this is known as 'the Greater Wrath,' rather than just 'the Wrath' is that a similar thing will happen _again_ in 1741, which will be called 'the Lesser Wrath.' But that one only lasted two years.

[21] - 'Dänemark' is German for 'Denmark.'

[22] - 'Preussen' is Danish for 'Prussia.'

[23] - 'Sverige' is Danish and Norwegian for 'Sweden.'

[24] - 'Preußen' is German for 'Prussia.'

[25] - 'Norge' is Danish, Norwegian, and Swedish for 'Norway.'

[26] - Names of prominent pre-history Nordic tribes. Tani, Sami, and Suetidi are respectively the ancestors of the Danes, Norwegians, and Swedish.

[27] - 'Bin geil, tak. Warum-Warum sprichts-st n-n-ichts an mir? Mir darüber? Hmmph. Mit mir?' is (drunken) German for 'I'm awesome. Why-why don't we speak of me? About me? Hmmph. With me?' Personally, I would find the 'chts' sound in German exceedingly difficult to say without full conscious control of my tongue.

[28] - 'Danmark' is Danish, Norwegian, and Swedish for 'Denmark.'

[29] - Prussia is under the belief that Switzerland should be part of the post-HRE German States, but he is actually fairly drunk right now, so this delusion about what is best for Hanover can be forgiven.

[30] - 'Ich weiß. Können wir irgendwo anders gehen?' is German for 'I know this factually. Could we go somewhere else?'

[31] - 'brat' and 'Bruder' are respectively Polish and German for 'brother.'

[32] - 'Osten' and 'Westen' are German for 'Eastern' and 'Western' respectively.

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[33] - Just as with the Stockholm scene, all conversation is taking place in Russian, and so Russia has no need of his verbal 'da' tick.

[34] - I tried to do some research into the history of Belarus when beginning the project. Then I promised myself that I would never do so again, and went to have a bit of a lie down. The Frankensteinian patchwork of countries and cultures that make up Natalya, along with the nightmarish scenarios that she has been faced with are mind boggling, and taking it all into account, she is exceedingly well adjusted to life. No wonder that she wants to become one with Russia, actually. Ivan has been the most stable thing in her unstable life, and out of necessity must be very attractive.

[35] - Catherine the Great took over in a coup from her husband Peter III. As Emperor, he hero-worshiped his contemporary Frederick the Great (Old Fritz) of Prussia, and allowed Russian foreign policy to be dictated by Prussian whims. The Russian nobility took a very dim view of this, and quickly conspired to depose him after they realized that his wife was not enamored with these foreign upstarts. Peter and Catherine seemed to have a willing partnership rather than a loving marriage. Peter acquiesced to quietly living out his (subsequently very short) life in the country, as long as he was allowed to do so in the company of his mistress, and Catherine, who also had many acknowledged lovers, agreed. It was, given Russian history, a very amicable split, and Catherine went on to make Russia a vast Imperial power, while Peter was assassinated by one of her lovers (almost certainly not on her orders, though).

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[36] - 'Hans Majeƒtät Konungen af Dannemark' is a transcription of the Danish beginning of the Treaty of Kiel. Even with the lack of standardized spelling, it rather obviously says 'His majesty, King of Denmark.'

[37] - 'Rhinen Forbund' is Danish for Napoleonic Germany, also known as the 'Confederacy of the Rhine.'

[38] - England's Glorious Revolution was the first time in European history when the lower classes succeeded in rising up, executing a reigning monarch, and instituting a new form of government that was supposed to be democratic. Unfortunately, it was not a successful form of government, and it collapsed in corruption. The royal family, which had been sheltering in France, came back to England and 'bloodlessly' re-instituted the monarchy (there were still several executions and a lot of political oppression) by pretending that the last 12 years had _never happened_. Even though the Revolution was not successful, it absolutely shocked the European world, because the people of England had _executed_ a King. People don't have ideas like that, and people certainly don't _do_ that sort of thing, and even if they did, _monarchs_ would be proof against it. But the English did. And when the French did the same thing a century later, they said: 'Look, look, we're just doing what the English have done. Only we will be successful.' Anyway, headcannon says that Arthur has a very hard time remembering the Glorious Revolution because the English crown refused to acknowledge that it happened. Huzzah for the Restoration.

[39] - Although Norway was ceded to Sweden in the Treaty of Kiel, all of the Norwegian vassal states, like Iceland, remained with Denmark.

[40] - 'lille løve' is Danish for 'little lion.' When Denmark gives you a nickname, he sticks with it for centuries.

[41] - Norway was there, and actually got into a couple of fights with Denmark over the western portions of England and the entire Northern Sea. By the way, Norway won those fights. Also, Old Norse has left its mark on the English language today. It's one of the reasons why I like Denmark-England awkward friendship, because for anyone as verbally oriented as Arthur, having their language come in and affect your own is going to leave a lasting mark.

[42] - Norway's main export at the time was lumber, and it was renowned for having the best wood workers (also known as timber princes) in Europe.

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[43] - Sweden is very unhappy, and very drunk. He's going to be fairly unintelligible, and I have decided not to provide translations. When writing Sweden normally I tend to drop vowels, so this will be the same, only more so.

[44] - 'Jeg er uavhengig. Norge, uavhengige' is Norwegian (I really need to stop writing in languages that I don't actually speak) for 'I am independent. Norway, independent.'

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[45] - At some point I'll stop enjoying the hilarity that is Vermont history. I promise. Anyway, back when Vermont was an independent nation (i.e. the war years after the land had broken from the New York colony and the New Hampshire colony) it entered into talks with Quebec about becoming part of the British Commonwealth. This was seen as treason by its neighbors, even though Vermont was an independent nation. The pressure from New York in particular quickly got Vermont to break off talks, and the Vermonters claimed that they had never seriously considered doing so. I personally believe that this is a lie, given the fact that Vermont was in a very tricky political situation at the time, what with being an illegal nation stolen by land thieves (one could claim this of the rest of the country, too, but with a different political background), and it was looking for anything that would protect it from being absorbed back into New York or New Hampshire. Anyway, I feel that although Quebec doesn't really care about Vermont as much as Vermont focuses on it, it occasionally finds great enjoyment in jokingly trying to get Vermont to join the Commonwealth. So, when Vermont starts bugging Quebec, he steals the seasonal vegetation that Vermont uses as hats, and claims them in the name of Arthur.

[46] - There are a lot of states in America, particularly in population limited New England, who have a _very_ low population, and a very high rate of turn out for military service. Vermont is by no means unique in giving up an alarming proportion of its young men, and now young women, during war time.

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**Omake (1410)**

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The Monastic Order growled in frustration as he sank a little further into the mud. Lithuania could be a real dead weight when he wanted. Whatever, he was probably using witchcraft. "You'll regret this!" he shouted angrily at the two nations, who were exchanging pleasantries over spiced wine, apparently not even caring that one of them was using him as a bench. "I'll totally conquer your asses next time!"

Poland looked up from his mug, the light from their private fire flashing off pearls and gems. "Like, Lietuva? Could you shut him up a bit? He's interrupting me, and, like, children should be seen and _not_ heard."

Lithuania complied with the request by placing a gloved hand on the back of the Monastic Order's head, and pushing his face into the ground, until the flailing arms and swearing told him that soon the weird army representative was going to suffocate.

"Tut, tut," Poland grinned, as the pale boy wrenched his head up. "You've got some Hail Marys coming to you. I don't think I've ever heard such language. I'm sure you took our Lord's name in vain. And isn't there some sort of rule against intemperance in your order?"

"Fuck that! And stop treating me like a fucking kid! I'm a knight! I passed my trials, fully blooded, unlike you two!"

Lithuania smiled gently. "Monastic, you're just a boy in our eyes."

Poland tittered, as under the layer of dirt the Order went red. He screeched angrily, futilely beating at the ground. "You bastards! I'm a full grown man!"

"Not by our standards," Poland taunted.

"Oh yeah?"

Lithuania nodded. "First, you need to be old enough to need to shave," he tapped the knight's smooth cheek expressively. "Then you need to have killed—and we'll admit that you've got that. But you also need to have slept with someone."

The boy glared expressively up at brown Lithuania. "There are _rules_ against that, witch. It's freaking unholy! Anyway, it's not as though _you_—," he trailed off as both Lithuania and Poland exchanged significant glances. "But you're both _men_. Oh GROSS! I don't even wanna know how that works."

"There are, like, a _lot_ of advantages to union," Poland informed the army. "Tell you what, if you're good, I'll let you remain in the house. Of course, you'll totally have to answer to Prusy."

"Hell no, that's a sissy name! I'm not going to let you get your heretical and disgusting hands on _me_!"

* * *

Thank you very much for reading. I don't speak Valley Girl, and I hope that Feliks sounds natural rather than forced. Also, were the footnotes too much? I tried to ease up on them at the end, because I figure most everyone who is reading this is more familiar with the recent history.

~ MF


	3. That Which Is Beautiful

**Author's Note**: Whoo. Eight Men is most definitely going to be an 'every other week' project until after the holidays die down. I'm flat out exhausted between this and finals.

So, this fic jumps around in time a lot. Which means that we'll be revisiting the time around 1809-1814 again. So, er, be ready for that. On the bright side, we're out of the Thirty Years' War after the first scene, which really should be a cause for celebration. On the down side, the Napoleonic Wars are bloody in my headcannon. I could give you all a long explanation about how the nations, as they grow up, start taking war more and more from an adult perspective, and now almost all of the participants are at an adult age, and then illustrate examples, and if you're really interested, PM me, or ask in a review. I could also toss out a theory that because Napoleon practiced total war on such a brutal scale, it started to take a deep psychological toll on the nations involved. Or these people all got to a certain place at a certain time, and because of what was going on outside, and on the inside, just snapped, and attacked each other with no holds barred. Either way, today's 'M' rating is for 'gore,' everyone.

**Warnings**: Imperial!Russia asks everyone to become one with him, unhappy Sweden, Napoleonic!France and Imperial!Russia make an interesting combination of sanity, Norway does not approve of constitutional belittling, and Japan following the dictates of honor.

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**Eight Men**

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**Historical Notes**

**Warsaw** - Prussia held a weird existence thanks to its unification with the March of Brandenburg, which was an independent nation, while the Duchy of Prussia was subject to Poland. Brandenburg-Prussia basically was only half way independent, and after the Thirty Years War, the independent half's desperate needs nearly destroyed the Polish duchy, so Poland let the duchy go, making Prussia a fully independent nation.

**Stockholm** - Queen Louisa Ulrika of Sweden was the sister of Frederik the Great of Prussia, and considered too politically ambitious and intractable to control by her brother. While this was most certainly the case of the pot calling the kettle Hohenzollern black, Louisa Ulrika was arrogant and headstrong, as well as being attractive and extravagantly charming. Her marriage into the Swedish royalty was actually first lauded by the Swedish themselves, as she actually could produce children, something that the rulers of Sweden had been failing to do since about Gustavus Adolphus. However, it turned out that she thought the Swedish constitution a mistake, and liked the idea of an absolute monarchy, and was politically capable enough to basically control her husband and the court. Given her rather extravagant tastes, and ruthlessness, it is probably lucky for Sweden that the Riksdag had already taken all of the power away from the monarchy during the Great Northern War. As it was, she made every attempt to regain monarchical power, even planning and nearly executing a coup targeted at dissolving Parliament. While that failed, she was able to get laws past that were absolutely punishing to the peasants of eastern Sweden, i.e. Finland.

**Kymi River (Kymijoki)** - During the Napoleonic Wars, France had pitted Denmark-Norway against both the British, and Sweden. While Sweden dealt with Norwegians and Danes making free with the Norwegian-Swedish border, Russia had the opportunity to attack Sweden's east side, and finish what it had begun during the Great Northern War. Russia invaded Finland in early 1808, but both Swedish troops and local Finns did what they always did when Russia invaded. They fought back. Unfortunately, Sweden recalled most of its troops to fight in other areas against the Napoleonic army and Denmark-Norway, and the few that remained were soundly beaten by the Russians. So, by November, the Swedish were forced to withdraw, and unofficially cede Finland to Russia. This left the local Finns fighting the Russians on their own, which also was a staple of Russian invasions, come to think of it. The last of the Finnish guerrillas were killed in the winter of 1808, and in 1809, Sweden officially had to cede the Finnish regions to Russia.

**Uddevalla** - The Gunboat War, which lasted from 1807 to 1814, was the name of Denmark-Norway's war with Great Britain during the Napoleonic wars, and their eventual defeat at the hands of Great Britain led to Norway being ceded to Sweden as a reparation for losing Finland. Basically the Danish navy was outdated and completely out classed compared to the British navy, but it had quiet a few small boats boasting ridiculous amounts of cannon that could swarm around a British ship, and sink it. Most of these boats were of Norwegian manufacture, and captained by Norwegians, which is only further proof that Denmark is Norway's, er, underdog on the high seas. Seriously, ever since they invaded the British Isles together and fought over who controlled the North Sea (the answer is, and always has been Norway), Denmark has always taken second place. But I digress.

**Champaubert** - The War of the Sixth Coalition (think about that for a second. It took six different alliances to take France down) finally united enough of Europe against a flagging France that Napoleon was forced to retreat back to Paris. However, this retreat ended in something known as the 'Six Day Campaign,' where Napoleon rallied his troops, and defeated the allies massed against him at every turn. On land, Prussia was leading most of the armies, given its reputation for success, and its length of time as a French enemy. However, there is a reason that after the Napoleonic wars the Prussian military hit high gear for modernization and remaking their army. That reason was that Napoleon utterly schooled the Prussian military. The Six Day Campaign is a brilliant example. In all the battles, except for the battle of Champaubert, Napoleon was out-numbered, sometimes by an army six times greater than his own, filled as the Grand Armee was with tired conscripts and Germans who happily defected to the other side every chance they got, and Napoleon still won all of them, even while retreating. Luckily for Prussia, they were mainly giving Russian troops the orders, so it was just a bunch of annoying Imperials being killed.

**Fredrikshald** - After the outcry against being ceded to Sweden, the crown Prince of Denmark went to Norway to convince people to overthrow the Swedish oppressor, and preferably return to the union. The Norwegians already had this well in hand, however, and were working fiercely for independence. By May, they had created a new constitution that was a good deal more liberal than anything else on the continent at the time. This caught the attention of the major international players, who were still licking their wounds from France, but really did not want an independent Norway. So the anti-French allies tried to negotiate Norway back into Sweden's possession, and Norway refused to accept this mediation, because the Treaty of Kiel really stunk for sovereign rights. Sweden's response was to invade the islands just outside of Fredrikshald in late July, and then fully invade Norway in August. The result of the war was a bit of a draw. Sweden still retained possession of Norway, but Norway kept its terrifyingly revolutionary (it had been influenced by both the constitutions of America and revolutionary France, and the European powers were leery of this) constitution.

**Lund** - In the mid 1800s Scandinavianism was sweeping Northern Europe, egged on by the success of Danish writer Hans Christian Andersen, and university students from Sweden-Norway and Denmark. There was talk of bringing the three countries into a stronger bond, such as another union or alliance, and culturally people were going through an 'admire the quaint folk ways that make the back bone of our cultural status as nations' phase. There were even rumblings of uniting the lands into one nation. However, while all the countries were undergoing times of peace, prosperity, cultural and intellectual revolution, there were a lot of unspoken problems that kept any firm unification from coming about. Firstly, Norway was still seeking independence from Sweden. Outright rebellion had been crushed, but the two governments were not getting along. Sweden was still smarting from the loss of Finland, and there were resurgent movements from time to time to get back at Russia. Denmark, however, was probably the one with the most difficulties, which was a problem, as Denmark was also the country that was most eager for the union to occur.

As a result of the nationalism and pride that was flourishing in the North, Denmark treated things that were not Danish or at least Scandinavian very poorly. Denmark and what was in the process of becoming Germany had close ties, given the fact that the northern states of Schleswig and Holstein were bound together in union, and Schleswig belonged to Denmark, while Holstein was an independent German state (if this is sounds a little like Prussia's existence between its union with Brandenburg, and its independence from Poland to you, you deserve a cookie). Yet, Denmark started treating the Germans under its control like dogs, which it had already been doing to all the other territories that it had gained from Norway in the Treaty of Kiel, and it started treating Holstein as though Holstein were part of the Danish Kingom. This meant that Germany and its much stronger allies, Prussia and Austria, were making lots of rumblings about how Denmark needed to be nicer, or Schleswig was going to become an independent nation, by force, if need be. The Second War of Schleswig would shatter Denmark's ideas about Scandinavian superiority, and cause the government to do some self analysis about its place as a foreign power, which would ultimately turn into Danish isolationism.

**Bataan** - The American and Philippine audience probably know all about this one, but the Bataan Death march is considered one of Japan's major war crimes from World War Two. After Japan invaded the Philippines they pushed American and Philippine forces along the Bataan peninsula until the American forces, seeing nothing but the death of their troops, in front of them, surrendered. Before the surrender, General McArthur, the guy in charge, and his family were evacuated from the Philippines, to Australia (not Canada). Once he got to safety, he sent out a radio address, which is where the 'I will return' quote comes from. He did return, but three years too late for most of the people who had put their trust in him as their commander. This is because the Japanese forced both the Americans and Filipinos into marching to the POW camp that they had set up. The march was continuous over seven days and out of about 68,000 Filipinos and 11,900 Americans some thousands escaped their guards, but it is estimated that around 10,000 Filipinos and 650 Americans died (please note that I'm using the higher numbers that I have found, because I'm a pessimist). The march is known for the brutality and inhumanity that the Japanese soldiers practiced, and Camp O'Donell was not know for being a bucket of roses, either.

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**Chapter 3: That Which Is Beautiful**

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**July 1657 – Warsaw, Poland**

The Duchy annoyed Feliks. Here it was, bleeding all over the stone cobbles of his glorious city, unrepentant for all of the trouble that it had caused over the years. Examining the _small_ principality from the safe distance of the Krakow Gate, Feliks petted his lovely horse absently, as she nosed his bright green and gold sleeve for a sugar lump. This gave him time to get his thoughts in order. A lot of those ordered thoughts wanted to smash the rebellious little uncooperative, manipulating bloody snot rag into the earth. But they needed him.

It was one of Mary's little jokes. Feliks knew that the Mother of God had a sense of humor that could not be denied; how else would someone as fantastic as he exist? However, it was irksome when she turned that humor on him. Irksome, and humiliating. Hadn't she realized that Prusy was, except in Poland proper, almost entirely Protestant? The kind who hated her, and wanted to burn her images, and everything else that was wonderful and grand.

Looking at the grand statue of Zygmunt [1] with his cross and sword, where Prusy had stopped, Feliks couldn't help thinking that in a way, he was just as fickle. _Well, old girl, time to eat the crow you're serving me_.

He swung elegantly into the saddle, and started down the street, pleasure walkers and carriages darting around him. The ride was only a short one, of course, but even if Prusy was still younger than Poland, he was growing in awkward stunted bursts, and the last thing Feliks needed was to be shorter than the stupid block head. That would be totally untenable.

Said blockhead was looking up at the tall column, one shoulder guard practically falling off famine starved bones. The black and white of his Brandenburg leaders just showed the dirt and old bloodstains. It was entirely gross, and Feliks feared that Prusy might have brought some sort of horrifying disease in with him. Gross. Gross. Gross.

"At some point, are you going to, you know, that thing with the soap that you Germans seem soooooo incapable of grasping?" Feliks asked curtly.

Prusy turned oozing stomach wound eyes on his overlord. In the turn of his head, Feliks caught sight of what he had actually been looking at. On one half raised hand, a bright little ball of yellow fluff perched. Inspecting Poland with a beady eye, it chirped, and fluttered to Prussy's matted hair, where it proceeded to sink in tiny claws, Feliks was sure. The eyes that had once been pale pink pearls of things slid up, and the gaunt face took on an expression bordering on delight.

Feliks held back a shudder with great effort. "That thing will poop on your head, you know, Prusy."

War torn, and too exhausted to make his normal protest over the use of the Polish, the Duchy of Brandenburg-Prussia shrugged. "There's worse stuff in there already. As for the soap, give me some, and I'll see what I can do."

Feliks frowned. "You're, like, totally not acting like your normal self."

"'M a little tired, Królowa Polska [2]. Really, if you've got anything to spare," he gazed greedily around the boulevard, taking in the clean white and brighter colors of the buildings, the smells of food from the shops, the fashionable men and women and how not dead they looked. "Multa sunt opes [3]," the splits in his chapped lips bled sluggishly as his mouth formed the jealous hungry words.

Feliks elegantly sighed, ready for his drama. "Firstly, stop being lame. Like please, your Latin was never _good_, but that? All that German Protestantism has messed with your head Prusy. Secondly, I, like, _told_ Liet you were a rapacious bastard who needed to be hunted down. Don't make me be the one to do it, 'kaysies?"

The tiny bird on his head mantled furiously, little yellow feathers sticking straight into the air. Prusy drew a short knife, once a shattered part of a longer blade, and tried to position himself as though he was going to attack. To a man on horse back, sabre at his side, it was ridiculous. The dagger would never get close enough to cut, even if Prusy was in the kind of shape to be remotely successful. _Old Lady Mary, you're trying to make me laugh. Seriously, this is beyond completely hilarious._ He was practically swaying. Actually, scratch that off the hide, and find the scribe once more, Prusy was _totally_ swaying.

Feliks dismounted in a smooth motion, knocking aside the wild lunge, which left disgusting Prusy disgustingly close. Feliks put out a finger, and pushed against the pale forehead, sending the figure still in his rusting war armor against the base of the column that reminded Feliks of everything that was going wrong. Prusy crashed against the granite like the sound of cymbals, and the bird took off with anxious peeping.

Poland grimaced. This was not how this kind of conference was supposed to go. He should have left everything to Liet, and taken on the Swedish himself. But, wars were so boring, and he was honestly just tired of them. So, obviously, he had to handle the diplomatic end of things. Even if Feliks _hated_ the partnered diplomat.

Waltzing forward, Feliks leaned over Prusy, who was trying to rise, but the massive scars on his hands were too busy reopening, and raw flesh on cobble stones was clearly painful. "Like, don't bother, will you, Prusy?"

"Preußen," the duchy muttered, still trying to heave himself to his feet. A slash that had split his chin was beginning to climb higher up his face to one of those dying eyes.

"Like, what, now?" Feliks put his hands on his hips.

Prusy glared upward. "In the human tongue, my name is _Preu__ß__en_! Use it!"

"I think my own duchy just sassed me, and told me to use the absolutely rude language of the property that is causing him to be such a drain and liability," Feliks exclaimed, amazed. "Like, Prusy, what would you do in my place? Besides attempt to replicate some Polish fabulousness, of course."

Snapping furiously, Prusy strained upward, even though he was too weak to get to his feet. "Just shut up, Polska! Why'd you even drag me here if it was just to mock me? I've got people to bury at home, and a neighbor to take care of—unless _you_ want that Austrian pussy to start everything all over again."

"That was your war," Poland shrugged turning back to his cute little pony. "The east totally has bigger concerns [4]. Concerns _you're_ not making any easier."

From the bloody cobbles, Prusy croaked his dying bird laugh. "What, you think little old me could possibly be looking for help?"

Rooting around in the saddle bag, Feliks felt his fingers curl into a fist. Mary, give him some patience. "Don't lie to me, Prusy," he ground out, voice dropping out of its carefree high octave for a moment. "You're practically sucking Swedish cock."

The annoying cackle choked and gargled off. Yet it didn't sound like embarrassed anger to Feliks' ears. He was used to the noises that Prusy made when embarrassed, any so far any swearing that would have normally exploded had not.

"Far as I can tell, he has enough people to do that for him already," Prusy's proud voice cracked slightly, and they both felt unfortunately connected through country. How hungry and tired and hurt Prusy's half-liberated land was limping along.

Feliks sneered at the sentiment. It was just disgusting how low Central Europe had fallen. The Swedes. The blighted, emotionless stubborn Swedes. They were _supposed_ to be part of the Commonwealth, and instead they were attacking him and Toris, and it was not at all fair. Especially because the little peasant representative of Sweden was so cute and adorable, and Sweden's military representative didn't do a thing to keep him cute. Feliks would have loved to give the little blond a whole new wardrobe. Honestly, he realized that they weren't in union, but it amounted to the same thing, practically, and Feliks kept Liet properly dressed.

Prusy continued: "But, if he asked, I guess I wouldn't say no."

"Don't say that."

"Well, you're not doing anything to help!" Prusy exploded, and Feliks was glad that the humans around them were unconsciously staying out of the way.

"Still. Massively disgusting, and totally on the list of mental images I don't need in my head," Poland shuddered.

Prusy, being Prusy, and foul minded, chuckled again, holding wounded sides. Feliks never thought that he would miss the Teutonic Order's narrow world. Europe had done something _strange_ to the militant nation. "That would be pretty unawesome. Still, you suck as an overlord, my Królowa. Why shouldn't I turn to him?"

Items from the saddle bags found, Poland turned to face his dependency once more. "Because he caused you to limp into my city, spilling your gross blood all over my cobblestones, like any of the other beggars, that's why, Prusy."

"Sure thing, but that doesn't get my people buried properly. It's going on ten years next August, and you know I still have corpses rotting all over me. The plagues haven't stopped. I can barely feed anyone, and Prussia is the best freaking part of the Commonwealth. I don't care what's going on in the east. I need _food_. I've been getting away with stealing shit from Austria, but at some point his unawesome security is gonna catch up with me. And hit me over the head with a frying pan. And there's the kid," his eyes paled suddenly. The color leached away. "I gotta do something."

Feliks tossed the bandages he had brought at Prusy's feet. This was not what vassal states were supposed to do. They were supposed to increase the greatness of the overlord, not drag it down. Not go running to the greatest enemy Empire it could find. "Use those."

Prusy grabbed for them with sore spotted hands. However, he did not put any of the bandages to use, merely hording them to his dented breast plate. The little bird tweeted, and fluttered to one long, bony knee, covered in rusting mail, and the black and should-have-been-white surcoat. Prusy was outdated. Broken sword, chain mail that no one else with sense would use, unhelmeted, as though arrows, and shot could be avoided in this day and age. If one insisted on being a throwback, be a full throw back. To think, Feliks had once worried about having this thing on his land out of something that was not quite fear.

"Whatever happened to honori et pietati [5], Prusy?"

Now the pale figure went furious red. Embarrassment crawled over him like a cloud. "Fuck you, Polen," he spat, trying to hurt Feliks with his new language. "You know fucking what, you pansy ass fop? You can't sleep warm with one, and the other fucking destroyed Europe. Get the fuck over whatever. Get over it. You haven't got a better offer than the monster. You're fucking losing, too. In fact, why aren't you on a battlefield? Leaving your girlfriend, Toris, to take your beating. Fucking thought so."

Feliks stamped his foot, his eyes flashing an angry turquoise. "I am here because Toris told me to be, you loud, obnoxious, infuriating freak! You're planning on betraying us, and you know what, we can understand that. But you and I both know that neither the Swedes nor the Cossacks will give you anything. You're a lost cause, Prusy, even if you did manage to come out vaguely on top. Central Europe's done for!"

Feliks waited for his logic to sink in. Unsurprisingly, the broken duchy-nation was not amused by the analysis. He sneered right in Feliks' face, fine boned nose—miraculous that it had managed to stay unbroken for all of these years—in the air. "Only if Austria gets it, Polen. You won't believe what I'll do. I'll be the conqueror of everything I want. The world will bow before the might of my awesomeness!"

_What a laugh, Lady Mary,_ Polska snickered meanly. "Trust a nation of no land to dream about the vital regions of others'."

Those grim eyes were lost in confident lashed shadows. "I won't just _dream_, Polska. I'll invade and conquer."

"The song gets com-pleeeeetly old, Prusy, and you can't carry the tune," Feliks looked at his graceful hands, and sighed. There were prices to everything. At least he'd get this annoying jerk out of the glory of Warsawa. Bending down, he reached out the hand, which the fallen knight regarded suspiciously. "Don't be, like, the completely exasperating ass you _always_ are," Poland snapped. "You were _invited_ here for a reason."

A troop of soldiers, cracking bad jokes in Lithuanian, marched past the monument and the nations. Prusy stared after them, and Feliks wondered if the oblivious idiot finally understood, that under the veneer of society, Poland-Lithuania was at war. The puss covered hand grasped Feliks' offered appendage, and Poland decided that he was a great person for not totally ripping his fingers away and setting his horse on Prusy.

"So," only barely balanced on his feet, Prusy glared hazily at his overlord. Grimly, Poland notice that the height difference existed no longer. Starved, yes, but part of the skeletal look came from a boyish body growing quickly into a man. "What do you need from me, my Królowa? New taxes? Conscripts?"

Poland rolled flat dark teal eyes, as he took an elegant handkerchief of gossamer-like consistency to the hand that had come in contact with Prusy. No one but an idiot would want anything out of the Brandenburg weighted dominions. The soldiers barely existed, and taxes would have just made the lack of meaningful harvest even worse. He began to lead his duchy down the street, past all the richness of the Krakow suburb. "You will give up on the Swedes. Don't ally. Don't financially support. They are just a northern neighbor. Our tiny little scuffle with them is ab-so-lute-ly none of your concern. Like, get it?"

The pale cheek gained a tic. "And how 'm I to get what I need without them? You keep telling me how much you can't," the fresh warm smell of pirogi rolled out a window, and Feliks realized a little drool was collecting at the corner of those colorless lips as Prusy continued to rant uselessly, "give me, thanks to the war. Why should I give up my life line?"

Feliks sighed in disdain. "Like, obviously, we only have one thing you really want. But you want it, so you'll do as we say."

Red eyes still had not learned the art of hiding their curiosity. Feliks was glad, in a way. He hated the nations who hid their true intentions. If you felt something, you should just come out and say it, right? Okay, maybe not in polite society, but if you know the person well enough, why not?

_Liet, smiling at his Lenkija, telling him that nothing was wrong. Lies. Utter lies, and Poland did not know how to respond, other than with a laugh, and a brush off joke about Swedish fashions, and how he was totally more fabulous._

"So, Prusy, how do you feel about becoming an independent nation?" Feliks asked.

Gilbert halted in the middle of the street, causing a carriage to come dangerously close to knocking him over, the horses only clipping out of their original path with the true elegance of equines. Feliks smirked, seeing exactly how dumbfounded the dying duchy was. Then, metal rings chiming together, a victorious fist shot into the air. "Richtig GEIL! Fucking _awesome_! All your taxes belong to me! And your harvests. And my right to piss off whoever I choose. Feliks, you weird dress-loving pansy, you are the most awesome thing since, since, er, since this bird! When I conquer all of Europe I'll remember you fondly."

Feliks, having heard it all before—seriously, was Prusy stuck on repetitive rhetoric or what—ignored the enthusiasm. "On the condition that you stop heading north and lurking hungrily outside of Stockholm, Prusy," the blond nation reminded his former dependent. "Otherwise," Poland's mouth drew into the wide smile of a sea creature with far too many teeth, "Liet and I will burn your fields to the ground, sow them with salt, stake you out in the middle of _Rosja_ [6] and giggle as you die the slow, well-deserved death of a traitor."

Prusy seemed to take the threat seriously enough to attempt a nervous laugh that crackled against the cobblestones. "You're that worried about little old me? What kind of person do you think I am?"

"Oh, a nasty headache of a bad little dependency," Feliks began.

Far off, Liet gasped as with an economical swing of the blade Sweden sliced up, steel screaming across steel, jamming through fur, and finally running through flesh until the sword rang dully against his jaw bone. It was Feliks' turn to stand paralyzed for a second. _Oh, Virgin Mary why are you letting this happen to us? Why?_ The world spun. Liet pinned to a tree by a belt dagger. Polska pinned to the street by a union shocked. This was just a skirmish. _Just a skirmish_ and Sweden had gone in fighting as though it was a full scale war. When had battle gotten so messy? _Liet's blood flowing over his throat. The burning pain in his lungs. The lack of air. The drowning. Drowning in gross. When had this become something other than a game?_

Gorey hands steadied his elbows for a second, their touch clumsily communicating an awkward brush along Polish land. Their connection was not yet dissolved, and Prusy, the sick result of all this sick and twisted age, was trying to act as a dependent duchy should, one last time.

They broke apart. Feliks, ashen faced, managed to summon a laugh from somewhere. "It's, like, totes just a scratch. He'll be soooo, like, annoying when he gets back to Warsawa [7], bleeding all over the place. I absolutely haaate having to stitch him up, too. Which, like, completely reminded me: Once you get cleaned up, and we sign the paperwork, get the Hell out of my gorgeous capital, Prusy."

Prussia, grinning, saluted with two fingers, keeping the bandages close to his chest with one arm. "As usual, then. Fuck off, Polska."

Feliks smiled with the opinion that at least one thing was going right. Once they were back on their feet, he and Toris could see about getting the potentially profit making parts of Prusy returned to the Commonwealth, where they belonged. And hopefully the man would stay in the German speaking territories.

* * *

**May, 1756 – Stockholm, Sweden  
**

The wind still had the raw edge of April on it, but that just helped the fluffy clouds and happy birds seem more real. Prussia grinned, leaning on a wooden balustrade. These Swedes and their wood work. It was just asking for a lightning strike to take everything out. Still the view of the sloping lawn, and spearheaded iron railings shutting out the bustle of the city was pretty nice. The short figure of Finland was just visible, his arm braced with splints and the hint of a bandage poking above his cravat, as he showed Ludwig, now named and tall, around the garden.

Behind Prussia, Sweden stood stiffly, as though on guard. The shade of blue he was going with today was faded, probably as close as this man came to directly insulting his queen, who was as extravagant as Gilbert.

"This is pretty awesome, Swede," Gilbert straightened as he turned around. "We should do this more often."

Clearing his throat gravely, the large man managed to indicate without a change in expression that Gilbert had been there for only a day and a half, and already that was far too much time spent in his company. Prussia grinned. At least the weirdo was politer about things than Roderich and Elizavetta. But their time would come very soon.

"No, really, the birds are singing, grass is growing, and I haven't seen a dead body all week. It's practically a record, huh? Gotta tell ya, Swede, it's a treat."

The blocky monolith of a nation looked as though he was about to mutter something impolitic. However, none of the words came. Which was annoying. Prussia did not spend his absolute awesomeness on a trip up here just for the good of his health. He was the most powerful Empire in freaking Europe, and Sweden had better recognize that. He had the best army, the best leader _ever_ in the history of leadership, and he was the best nation out there. Sure, Francis was busy honhonhon-ing over on the west coast, and Russia had really taken leaps and bounds since Nystad, but Central Europe was where it was _at_.

Other than Austria being a bitch about Silesia, of course, and Fritz had plans for that, of which Prussia entirely approved. He was going to rule the world, and everyone knew it. Even the arrogant and intractable Arthur had been extending a hand of friendship. [8]

And a few of his scones, which Gilbert had been assured by Denmark was Arthur's way of being friendly, and not declaring war. Prussia was still debating whether it would be awesome to try them or not. He knew Ludwig had thrown away the last attempt at baked good diplomacy, and had drafted a strongly worded note that tea would be a sufficient gift next time. It was so cute. Some days Prussia could not be happier that he had Ludwig there to take care of all the unawesome stuff that he was uninterested in by the very nature of it being unawesome.

_Other days, however,_ Prussia risked a red-eyed glance across the lawn. Ludwig looked fine right now. Better than fine, really. Finland had produced a fluffy dog, and the blond teen was happily wrestling with the small white pet. Last night, though, they had spent three hours with several different maps and an awkward moment when Prussia had to explain how to get a more obvious, visual representation of the country to come up through the skin before they realized that Lutz's right arm was mostly Saxony [9]. Considering the current political situation, Gilbert realized they probably should have figured this out what with the way that hand seemed to be happy to either slap or punch Prussia [10]. He did not like the way Ludwig kept getting in the way of himself, either. Prussia could take Saxony on no sweat. He was Prussia, and awesome.

The problem was how to keep the fractured remains of Roddy's former empire under Ludwig's control. German States flatly refused to give up any of his sense of land, even for some internal peace, and Prussia could get behind that. He was a little spread out all over Europe, even though he had _plans_ for the section of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth between Prussia and Brandenburg. He'd never give up what he had willingly. And since he was so awesome, unwillingly was not a consideration.

Prussia's blood red eyes followed the movements of the three. Lutz really liked dogs. Prussia should try finding him one or two. Maybe it would chase away that obstinate pink-eyed tom cat that kept following his birds around. "So, _what_ exactly is the deal between you and Finland, Swede-y-pie?" Prussia asked, almost snickering at the nickname. He'd been hanging around with Arthur too much if he thought that was funny.

And around Spain _far_ too much if he did not notice the sudden freezing of the air. Sweden was doing what he did best. Looming with menace. And he was now doing it in Prussia's personal space, having crossed the self-imposed distance with one stride. These alarming facts Prussia, being naturally awesome and completely without fear, just brushed off.

"Y'see th' b'nd'ges?" Sweden's voice rumbled all around Prussia like a warning volcano. One cold hand shot out, forcing Prussia's translucent head to turn and look at Finland, who was laughing as the little dog ran off with the tattered end of Ludwig's sleeve. "Y'r qu'n _'ttacked_ his p'ple. She us'd _m'_g'vernm'nt t' do it."

"Ah," Gilbert began, reaching to disengage the crushing fingers, and not meeting the chilling spears of ice Sweden hid behind his glasses.

_His_ queen. The one Sweden could not deal with, because Sweden's king was entirely her bitch. Prussia was proud of Louisa Ulrika. For one thing, she was Fritz's sister, which meant automatic awesome points, even if Fritz did not completely agree. For another, she was gorgeous, forceful, and damn feisty, all things Prussia thought advertised his nation favorably. Also, she told the best jokes over dinner, and treated Gilbert to enough hospitality to make up for Sweden's freezing reception.

"So, I'm guessing that you and the boy are like me and Lutz?" Gilbert suggested, managing to get the massive nation to recoil in complete horror.

Going red, the blue-wearing land looked towards the rest of the city. "No. D'fnit'ly no. 'Less y'ra _real_ b'st'rd."

Prussia made a face, and turned back to viewing the garden. "You realize whatever you two do behind closed doors is sick, right?"

A soft sound that was familiar enough for Prussia to know it was time to make certain that he had both his sword and pistol to hand replied to the accusation. Long swords unsheathing themselves from scabbards sounded like that.

"T'is fr'm a f'rmer m'mber o' th' P'lish-Lit'uani'n C'mm'nwealt'? Tino's m'wife," Sweden stated with quiet finality.

Prussia rolled his eyes. He had not been under Feliks' and Toris' control for almost a century! When were people going to forget that? "Just saying—you keep up like you do and people will think that you care for the kid, and then they'll use him against you."

No metal whistling death. Prussia risked a glance. The harsh face looked dumbstruck. "I d' c're f'r him."

Now it was Prussia's turn to be confused. Okay, so he had seen Sweden take on Imperial Russia for the smaller half of his kingdom, but this wasn't a union, really. It was not as though Sweden was _obligated_ to worry about the kid. Prussia could see enjoying having Finland at one's beck and call. But you didn't _care_ about subordinates. Brothers were different, which was why he had tried to characterize everything in relation to, well, brotherhood. Unfortunately for his peace of mind, Sweden was a pervert.

Didn't the guy _get_ what would happen if he entered into a union, or anything? Okay, so Gilbert's perspective was of the outsider, but nations weren't—they had to be _flexible_ about things, even people like Gilbert who had decided never to get involved in a relationship ever. Being so focused on one part of the Swedish nation was really _off_. Spain had explained a lot about his union with Austria while drunk, and Prussia had resolved that being without unions was the best place to be, but the Nords all went in for that stuff in a big way, didn't they? Eh. It was too annoying and pansy to sort out.

"You know, I'm gonna let this one rest, I guess. I just thought while things are shaping up for another war I should know how ready you were."

Wind rustled the grass. "Why w'ld I b' 'n y'r side?" Sweden mumbled.

Prussia sneered. "Where else would you be? _Russia_? Francis? Face it, Schweden, my side is the one you want to be on."

The hands roughly grabbed his sharp chin once more, swinging it to the lawn once more. Ludwig had been toppled by the small canine, which now was licking his face. Finland watched, giggling to himself. The young man looked up, his old, quiet eyes staring at the pair on the terrace. He sent them a special, understanding smile.

"Y'see wh't y'r qu'n did?" Sweden repeated grimly. Gilbert could not nod, despite knowing the old grimness in those eyes, and seeing the bandages. Why were the Nordics all so freaking off-kilter? "Gud. T'en y'll un'rst'nd: If chance I h've t' hurt y', Preussen, 'll take it [11]."

From the tricorne of awesome, a distressed peeping reacted to the presence of the massive nation. Sweden's cold promise turned to bemusement, and he let go of Prussia, now just an old, uncertain soldier, rather than the man who had once forged an empire together on spit and nothing. "Th'r's bird 'n y'r hat."

Prussia, soon-to-be-world conqueror, shook off any chills he felt. That was just how you had to do things some times. Nations could not afford to be subtle. Nations could not be _nice_, not if they wanted to survive. "Of course there is! Because I'm just that awesome, Schweden. So, when's lunch?"

* * *

**November 1808 – Kymi River, Finnish-Russian Border**

"_Fr'ncis 'sa m'ntser."_

Tino would believe that. The sky overhead was turning green with the false dawn, and he stood on the ice, looking down at the pink freezing of human blood on frozen water. These men had not been the last of his forces, but Berwald had left, distracted by France and, as usual, Tanska [12]. Tino almost smiled. It should be considered an international sport, really, seeing how long it would take to get Berwald and Matthias to attack each other. It had been a good peace this time around. Tino was sorry to see it go.

He was not sorry to see the horrifying two-headed eagle standard on the east bank of the river. He was angry. Angry at Venäjä [13], who beat his people on the other side of Kymijoki [14], and placed the ignorant Russian nobles above them, and had stolen his people, and killed his people, and hurt his people, and was now talking of independence for his people—using words which Tino did not understand, but wanted so badly.

Tino looked down at the flintlock pistol in his hand. He was carrying four of the single shots, picked up from battle fields, skirmish lines, and any other place where men sat down to die. On a cold winter night, above a river, this was an impractical weapon, but it was what he had. Hands that did not go numb from cold, because Tino was not going to let them do so, were ready to cock and fire. One shot. Sometimes that was all he needed.

Russian voices and Russian songs called out drunkenly across the frozen ice sheet. Tino smiled to himself, more a reflex than anything, and silently apologized to the families that had placed their sons, brothers, husbands, and children here on this night. He still had two stolen swords, one thick backsword [15], which he disliked for its chunky balance, swung across his back, and the some other long sword at his hip that he had picked up from a group of Cossacks, who would no longer need it, many leagues and days ago.

Finland began to run. Nations should not do this. Nations had responsibilities to their humans, and to humans in general. No man should feel as though the land itself, the last place of refuge for the lost and confused, had turned against him. But his men were gone, and more would die, and as much as the sweet words about autonomy and duchies were, Berwald could not be placed in the position where he had to choose between himself and Tino. Just because his men were dead did not mean that Finland would make this easy. More would survive. They were Suomi. They always survived, hidden in his woods, and now he had to protect them all alone. Tino wished that things were otherwise, because what he was about to do was quite bad for unsuspecting humans.

Cleaving through the air, he jumped the east bank, and ran on, a short, determined arrow propelled from a bow with no archer. The first sentry did not scream because the onrushing blue and white shadow looked no different than the fresh snow, one of the first falls of the year. It had come late.

The second sentry gasped. The blade slid in, and flew out in a bloody, shining arch. Bubbling his life away, he was still able to scream. Tino did not notice, the land told himself, as he hit the camp with the fury of blasting snow. Kenraali Talvi [16] was visiting in the wake of the nation gripping two swords. Tino could feel the cruel, joyful power building behind him, and regretted it. But not enough to stop. They had been his guerrillas. They had been Berwald's men. Viha [17] would not visit for a third time. His people needed him to defend them. Berwald needed his protection against this menace.

In a whirl of swords and snow, bullets fired, sending up gouts of white smoke as their powder caught. God, a nation should not do _this_. Tino kicked away the next headless body before it could fall, and swung his own body to the right.

The huge bludgeon of one of those Cossack scabbard covered sabres smashed across his face, breaking his nose. Stumbling back, the nation did not look up into that wall of muscle. The faint whiff of illusory flowers neither of them knew hung between them. Even if the land between his feet and the snow had not clearly welcomed his foe, there were not that many humans who could summon the kind of force necessary to break a nation's nose.

In the orange light of torches and the cold colors of a coming dawn, Russia moved like a snake right for Finland. But Tino trained with Berwald. Big men with turns of speed that were wrong for things their size were nothing new to Tino. He rolled away, tucking himself among the milling legs of the humans, confused shouts ringing all around him. He was invisible in the bad torchlight with the earth so close to his own.

Threading his way upright, Tino ran, following the flow of confusion around one tent, and straight into the arms of one sleepy young man still trying to find his sword.

"Что [18]?" the young man blinked sleepily.

Screams exploded through the false night. Finland, shocked, whirled. No. That could not have been what he thought had happened. No one, not even Su-san at his angriest had ever—and then the chanting started.

"Kolkolkolkol, Финляндия [19], my kitten, why do you run from me? Your men are dead, kitten. You no longer need to fight, да [20]?"

Tino looked over one white clad shoulder at the confused young man who was hearing in his bones, no doubt, the nations. Blocked by the tent, blood was seeping into the snow. Ivan had done that. Tino had meant to kill the enemy, and they were now dead. But Russia had—Nations were not supposed to _do_ this. "Run, please," Tino breathed, dashing back around the tent.

Russia stood smiling in a clearing of corpses. Humans crowded back, pressing into a wall of well-founded fear. This was Россiйкая Имперiя [21], huge and strange as only a being of land and people can be. He strode forward, the bleeding Cossack sword, which was nearly too long for Tino's legs, looking like a toy in the mighty fist.

"_Kitten_? Where are you, kitten?" Men were in his way. The sword danced high and lightly for a moment, descending into a bone cleaving rush. Blood covered the right arm, sunk up to the tips of gloved fingers in intestines. "Kitten?"

Tino drew his backsword, fear drying the back of his throat better than the wind of Kenraali Talvi. This thing was a demon. The sharp length of steel slashed out. Seeking its next prey. A group of young men clustered together in fear of those smiling, crinkled, joyful purple eyes. Moving one long arm, the Empire sought their lives for hiding his kitten.

With a crash, the sword ran into the dull steel of a useless European sabre. Russia smiled as he looked down into the burning blue of the sweet-faced Finland. "Kitten! You will be—,"

"This isn't what nations _do_, Venäjä! They are your own people!" yelling, Tino knocked away the sharp edged blade, closing on his foe's left side.

As expected, Russia did nothing to avoid the stab, which brought him into arms' reach of Finland. He reached for the soft hair, red staining his bright under coat a deeper shade of scarlet that spread into the gold braid at the front of the uniform. Tino could not disengage from the huge nation fast enough, but he was ready.

The hand holding the backsword flashed like a snake, slamming cruelly into the Empire's forearm, biting deep until it stuck in the bone. Russia yanked his hand away, the central European blade still embedded, just as Tino pulled his longer, better balanced sword from the giant's side.

Glancing at the piece of steel now growing from his arm, Venäjä mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like another chant, sheathing his own sword once more.

Tino took the opportunity, sliding in, and slashing upward, taking pale skin and the ashy blond hair that swung to shade smiling violet eyes. Blood splurted crimson across the face, hopefully blinding those horrible eyes, and then Tino was out of reach once again.

Venäjä grabbed the steel still buried in his arm, and wrenched it from the muscle. "Kolkolkol, Финляндия, you _do_ want to fight."

Tino backed up, holding his sword defensively. "I want you out of Su—_my_ land."

Russia advanced, his sheathed sword held like a club. The smile still flitted around his face, now lighting an eye, now dimpling a cheek. At one point, even the strong, forceful nose appeared child-like. Tino glanced around carefully. The humans, like complete numbskulls who did not realize that at least one of the combatants was insane, still provided a ring of an audience.

Venäjä covered the last few feet between them, and Tino only barely caught the full crushing weight of the scabbard on his own sword. Something dangerous flashed in the blood. "This is a shashka, Финляндия. My kitten, where did you get it?"

Finland, sliding out from under the crushing weight, and dancing his small body around the large nation, hoping to get a clear shot at an unprotected back, did not answer the question. Wham! Russia spun, the sheathed blade crashing into Tino's head. The world wavered. Tino fell. The snow beneath him became pink.

Venäjä leaped on top of him, one gloved hand curled into a furious fist. "Where did you get it? That is Ketyusha's blade! She forged it for both of us!"

Already bleeding from the nose, Finland could feel his left eye jumping madly, as it refused to focus on anything but the power of the Russian fist. "Battlefield!" the young man screamed between blows. "I found it!"

Russia paused. Thoughts were streaming back and forth in his deep set eyes. Tino's hand dropped the sword. He couldn't see anything on his left side, and it hurt. Just hurt. But sometimes pain was the price you paid to free yourself from a conqueror, eh, Tanska? Tino thought to a internal memory of a nation many miles away and fighting British fleets on an sea that had once been his.

Blindly, he drew the first one-shot and pulled the trigger. Venäjä howled, rolling back from Tino's legs. The short nation, head throbbing, tried to stuff the pain into some unknown crevasse in his mind, as he scrambled out of the way. The one shot landed in the snow, spent. Tino made it as far as three feet, when the scabbard whistled down from on high. Luck saved his skull. Tino went flat, and rolled to the left.

"That was not nice, да? You are a very bad kitty, Финляндия. I will have to hurt you."

A heavy boot bit into Tino's back. Finland closed his eyes. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to turn and fight from. Three more shots, and perhaps one should save the best for last—but that was the coward's way out. He had a people. He had Su-san. He had _reason_ which Venäjä neglected.

Belly down in the drift of snow, half sludge thanks to the pounding of Russian boots, Finland took the blows meant for his guerrillas and the remaining men of Ruosti. Three more shots. As soon as Venäjä grew tired, the small man chanted to himself, promising escape, and better ground for a new fight. Pinkly against white he passed out.

Arms wrapped warmly around his aching body. A soft, warmly knitted scarf soothingly pressed against one frozen cheek, warming it. White sheets of snow were falling, and Kenraali Talvi's cold laugh howled on the wind, reminding Tino that he had brought the old man here in his fury. Venäjä's breath was warm on the top of his head, ruffling the few chunks of hair not matted to his skull by frozen blood. It melted the snow flakes, and then let the water freeze again.

"And then we will be one, да?" Venäjä was mumbling. "I will take you back to my house, and you will meet Katyusha again and eat her food, and you will be warm, and beloved, and Natalya will adore you like the kitten you are. Just do not make me punish you again. I know kitties are rebellious. You are not like Toris, who is soft and gentle. You have claws," with horror, Tino felt those large hands moving in along the waistband of his blue sash with the gold band that Berwald had made just for him.

Another pistol was barely visible beyond Venäjä's coat wrapped shoulder, lying dead in the snow, the powder most likely soaked. Now the second one was gently removed from his possession and dumped carelessly in the snow, near a gut-spilled body. Those terrible hands moved to cup his face, trapping hot knitted wool between them. Tino saw the fire deep in the pleased eyes.

"You killed your own men," Tino wondered if the accusation even registered in Venäjä's mind.

The large man nodded. "There are always more, да? I have killed many, and they always come back. Back out of the earth. They are just human. I am more, да. Much more. _We_ are more, Финляндия, and it will all be better. Eduard has missed you," and that secret whisper made Tino want to vomit, because to save him, Su-san had given his best friend to this monster. "You will be together again, and all in my house, and we will be one."

Slipping the final pistol from within his sleeve, Tino wrenched his screaming arm up, and fired at point blank range. Stumbling away, he left the warmth of that choking scarf, and ran into the embrace of Kenraali Talvi. Over the bloody Russian camp, dawn was breaking through the clouds in watery white fingers. Tino ran on through the snow, heading for the river. The bitter cold of the old man's breath brought the noise of a robust nation putting himself back together.

"Kolkolkolkolkolkolkolkolkol."

* * *

**April, 1811 – Uddevalla, Sweden**

Norway's hands on the earth and bitter earnestness seeping into his veins alerted Sweden to the presence of the three quarreling nations on his coast. Without thinking he picked up his sword and ran. Not that he really objected to Norway—Norge's land had always been twined with his own, and they should have been like brothers, inseparable. But there was Danmark, always standing in the way, dragging Norge off into stupid wars, and Norge just let him, while the lives of his people went to Hell. Sweden would have made sure that people came before Danmark's deranged schemes. It was simply in the nation's best interest. But Norge picked Danmark, instead of letting Sweden fix things for him.

Sweden strode through his lessened land, his anger building. No longer was he responsible for the well being of even the easiest of lands. He had lost the most important part of himself, and now his thoughts would not stop spinning. Dancing to music that faintly worried him, because it might just be a swan song. At one moment he found himself toying with the desire to hold all of Scandanavia in his grasp. At another planning to invade Russia again, and liberate Tino from that creature's house. At a third, he would kill Francis.

Norge probably believed him still neutral, or uninterested in anything but France. France. France he would see _destroyed_, after he killed Russia. And right now, Francis' ally was on his coast, on his ground, _gloating_.

"You did _not_ win, you irritating, vapid _prat_!" The lilting voice was familiar enough, but Sweden does not care.

A floating sparkle lifted in the air, as Norway looked along the beach, probably the only one paying enough attention to realize that Sweden was on the move. The cold surf lapping at his ankles, Denmark roared in laughter. "Give up, lille løve. Norge took you _down_, and I finished you off [22]!"

"Danmark."

Blue arms crossed furiously over his white waistcoat. Arthur had managed to lose his bicorne somewhere in the course of the day, as well as become thoroughly drenched in seawater. "I let that happen to the _Swan_. You did not look so great with my sword sticking—Bloody Hell!"

The sword slashed out, cutting a diagonal across the back of Denmark's blood red naval coat. Gasping, Denmark fell into the waves, right in front of a startled England. Sweden stood over the body, glaring down, watching as the nation twitched. "G't off m' l'nd."

Something flashed green behind him. Norge. Allowing Danmark to overrun everything. Allowing him to steal Sweden's attention. Allowing him to forget Russia. Because Francis was a monster.

"'Ttack me 'nd y'll r'gret it, Norge," Sweden rumbled. "Don' wanna hurt m'neighbor, butchu'll r'gret it."

Denmark rose again on unsteady arms. With a swift kick, Sweden flipped Denmark on his back, letting the icy salt water work into his wound and make him arch painfully in shock. The longsword whistled down, stabbing through the white vest and into the gut. Sweden pushed as bone grated against steel, and then he was through, metal scraping against beach rocks and barnacles.

Arthur cleared his throat as Denmark writhed violently against the blade, twisting it deeper. "Steady, Sweden. We're not—,"

"G't. Off. M'. L'nd," Sweden snarled, not looking at anything other than Denmark's shining eyes. "'M n't part 'f y'r war 'nymore [23]."

Something flashed over his shoulder, coming down with a might splash in the ocean, the bladed head only barely out of the waves. Denmark's hand grasped the rising haft, and Sweden did not stop him. "Hoi, Norge, a little more respect of the battle equipment, if you please!" the nation yelled out, trying to stand against the over large pin. "Little lion, we'll continue this later. Norge, get back on the ships!"

Sweden wrenched his sword from the body, and jumped back. The troll's punch connected predictably with the rising Danish face, and Matthias crashed further into the ocean. Out of the corner of a bespectacled eye, Sweden was reward by the rare sight of a visible flinch from the summoner.

"L've Norge, y'have no pl'ce in this," Sweden rumbled. This was Danmark, on his land. Danmark laughing. Danmark being there like the old bad days before Sweden had even known Suomi.

What was Ivan doing to him right now? Why had Sweden allowed himself to be distracted? He should have known. It was too stupid, too arrogant. It was happening all over again The noise and fog and screams and dying, and the poor body. Why did it always happen this way? Why wasn't he better at doing his duty? The lion protected. He killed. What was _wrong_ with him?

Danmark charged out of the ocean, and once more Sweden's mind shut off with relief. The axe dragged a massive cleft though the water, and then it arched up, and up, and up. His long blade caught the trial of steel on the downward swing. The perfect defense. A twist, and the huge blade bounced passed his shoulder. Sweden slid his feet around in an aggressive lunge that spitted his old foe.

His land sang, waking to spring with a horrible vengeance. Winter's frosty grip was still there, but it could not compete with the raging, rushing opening buds, the chorus of birds, the sky. Oh, the sky stretching away in every direction, waiting only for the bite of Norway's mountains. Bright blue light that had once lifted the eyes of Tino as he recounted his bright day, filled with jokes and impersonations that never failed to grab Sweden in a smile.

_And Russia was murdering that light as they fought._ All because France had used Danmark, and had interested Sweden. Danmark. Danmark. Danmark, who was here, in front of Sweden.

The axe bit through the morning, rushing for Sweden's side. He twisted, guarding with a red blade. Present as little of the body as possible. Danmark flew past him, following the axe as a dog follows a stick, instinct of the hunt guiding the muscles. Sweden gave into a different instinct.

The sword thirsted as it swung out of defense into attack. It bit and devoured cleanly the lower arm trailing too close to it. It reveled in Denmark's howl of surprise. It sought after the blond head. This was not nations. The sword could give a damn about nations. This was about Berwald and the aching hole somewhere that had to be a lung or his heart. This was about Matthias, always stepping too far over the border. This was about Tino, no longer there to tell Berwald not to _hate_.

Matthias swung around. Berwald pursued. His sword cut furious shapes across the foe's chest. _This_ was where Ivan had beaten him. _This_ was where his leader had betrayed him [24]. And this—his sword whirled in a red blurred crescent—this was what it felt like to have Tino gone.

Red, pulsing, wet, Matthias' liver slipped from the huge tear in his body. It splatted on the barnacle encrusted rocks. The waves lapped at it. In the heady, furious, hungry rush of spring time, Berwald ran forward, even as the tall blond man stumbled on sea wet stones. Not even the axe was raised in protection. Even though Matthias could see Berwald sprinting for him, no resistance came. Sometimes, you just needed this.

The sword executed him like a king, and the bleeding body fell into the shallows.

Sweden cleaned his blade thoroughly on his sleeve, which was blood wet. He must look like a red painted devil from a masque. Sweden could live with that. Norway walked past him, holding his head high, before he reached around, trying to locate the important bits of his union partner. "That was unnecessary. We aren't at war," his voice remained flat.

"Y' sided wit' Francis. We're a' war," Sweden replied, feeling, nothing. Finally, he was empty and drained. Nothing. No more pain. No more worry. No more nightmares living with him, and clouding his thoughts. Danmark would be up and around in no time. He was lively like that.

Arthur cleared his throat nervously. He had gotten close enough to become splattered with blood. "You'll break your neutrality, then?"

About to say yes, the feelings rushed back. Sweden almost fell as his sense _of_ Sweden assaulted him. No more Berwald. Nothing human. The land. Only the land. Always the land. The people, screaming and whirling in a confusing dance of blue and gold. They were—he had a _duty_ to them. Much as he wanted to, he could not turn on Russia, or Francis. Not unless they gave themselves up, by visiting his shore.

Carrying his sword, he turned his back expressively on Arthur, and began to walk back to civilization.

* * *

**February 1814 – Champaubert, France**

There were times when Ivan wondered how someone as strong as he was could be held back by mere human beings. He was more than capable. His shashka swiped through more humans, their cries embroidering his fading memories. Blades were for humans. Nations deserved something different. Special. They were all special. If humans were replaceable and meaningless, nations were not. Not his fellows, the ones who never came to visit his cold house. So he would make them.

The sword glittered brilliantly, but there were too many. He had been shot so many times, their swords had bit into him in so many places. It was a dark ring of wolves on all sides. A gray yellow sky stretched far above them, its chill dry, with nary a flake of snow. The hard, frozen ground was at last giving way, under the boots and blood of exhausted men, and dead armies.

Horses pounded somewhere in the dark human fog. Ivan struck blindly left, willing, eager to break from the French ring as mere, pitiful humans tried to bring him down. Their seeking would be in vain.

A lunge. A burst. He barreled through the line, shashka a ribbon of quick, unstoppable death. And there, in another widening circle, Prussia cackled. His ally. His enemy. Prussia competed for a world stage that did not belong to him. It belonged to Catherine and Россiйкая Имперiя. But the black eagle and its white standard remained oblivious to this. He would let them. For now, they were friends.

Ivan tore into the men surrounding Prussia. His Cossack blade, made by the Ukraine, his ever helpful Katyusha, sang happily. It knew its job, even if his older sister would have hated that work. Hated the violence that engulfed her little Vanya.

"Kesesesese, du alte Arschloch [25]!" Prussia crowed, battle fever humming through veins that allowed for nothing but the fight. Ivan smiled the smile of a comrade. "Sie kommen nicht! Kennst du dass? Meinen Leute kommen nicht. Dein General würde storben, und dann ist nur uns. Uns und Francis [26]," his voice growled happily on the final consonants, and he cut through a musket, and kicked its owner in the face.

Whirling at break neck speed, Prussia dashed around Ivan. Russia took the next bullet, feeling the soft lead splash inside his body. "That was not nice, да?" Russia barked over the screeching of humans, cutting through the next two foes.

High on death, the wild-eyed army nation just grinned, slipping under his guard to skewer a sneaking infantryman in the no longer white waistcoat. "Francis has us here, Zaristischen Russland [27]. The land is flat, and I hear his cavalry."

Ivan returned the death defying grin with his gentle smile, lopping off the head of the nearest man. A pike shot through Prussia's shoulder, and the shashka came whistling down. Freedom on the end of a sword. Katyusha would like to know that her gift saved a life.

"Why don't you abandon me, too?" Ivan panted, putting his back to the vicious little nation. They circled, suddenly united in watching death. "Your general already has."

Breathing space. A pause. Ivan could not see Королевство Пруссия [28], but he felt the form behind him jerk for a moment. A sabre to the gut. Prussia gasped, his speech switching from gravel to bloody bubbles and back. "Meine Leute die heir sind, dafür bleibe ich! Du kannst irgend wo anders gehen, verdammte Bär [29]!"

Russia did not even pretend to understand. The thundering of horses was growing nearer. He hated dying cold. It was unpleasant, and the February air was frosty. He began to giggle. Behind the lines of infantry, cannons moved, wheels getting stuck on frozen ruts.

Prussia, those eagle's eyes always on the field, tilted his head to the sky for a moment. Ivan could feel the movement of hair against his shoulder blades, and realized that both his coats must have been ripped to shreds. The more universal language reached his ears in the seeming battle lull. "What's so funny?"

Ivan managed to swallow his laughter. "We cannot set this place on fire. It is too cold and there is not enough grass, да?"

Prussia managed a small shriek of death delighted agreement, audible over the rumble of wheels, and the charging of hooves. The world turned on their axis. Ivan felt another giggle coming on.

"They have to bring out cannon, да? We must be _annoying_ them."

"True," Prussia was cackling again. It did not take much to set this man off. Ivan hated that harsh laugh, which contained nothing of sunflowers, or love, but it was a friendly noise in the midst of weapons fire. "I hope like hell they let Francis do the honors. I don't fucking relish our bits getting mixed together."

Ivan thought about that. The Grand Army was giving them their space, only showing swords and muskets when the nations looked as though they would stagger forward. "Why not? You belong with me."

Everyone did. It was the universal constant. Even someone who needed real correction at the end of a blunt instrument to do what Ivan found acceptable still belonged with him. Ivan, without a heart, loved everyone enough to help them achieve the correct state.

"Fuck no!"

Prussia's hair had remained mixing with his drying blood, and was now trapped against his back. He was still staring at that noxious sky. The horrifying expanse that pressed down on their faces, promising smothering cold and winter. Ivan did not understand it. When he took Prussia back home, he would have to discover why the gray wool of the sky was so fascinating.

"Everyone becomes one with me at some point. And then my house is no longer lonely," Ivan prattled, wiping a sweaty hand on his scarf. The horses were getting nearer.

Prussia grunted, pulling his tired body away. And he would never do _that_ to Ivan again. "Cavalry. Everyone's favorite shit head's here."

The horses bore down on the two, as Prussia flashed his sabre. Ivan grinned, a stiff arm moving in slow motion to hamstring a beautiful brown coated creature. And then there was Francis. Francis, blue eyes, and cruel. The beauty of his face was no longer a minor threat, even after Ivan had strangled him until he was purple, and tongue lolling erect. The beauty was a weapon. You would love him as he killed you, his eyes burning, as Paris would burn once Ivan got enough grass together.

The weapon was strength. Francis was strong and glorious as his tri-colored flag. Even falling into the fire, even consumed by his infernal fever of a revolution, France was something to be emulated. Everyone wanted to watch, wanted to be there, to see the brightest star fall. Ivan's star, like the rest, would remain burning in the lonely cold and black.

Prussia screamed something in German, and launched himself futilely at the lovely man who rode his horse as though he had been born in that saddle. The saber effortlessly ran him through the heart. Blood, crimson, lovely to Russia, who could see the warmth and the color, ran down the blade, while the colorless demon, Королевство Пруссия, bit and gnashed. Silver streaked in, and up the back of the bright, lovely blue coat, painting it purple with dark red.

The fiery eyes widened, encompassing the entire battle, as Prussia slid from the blade, croaking for a moment: "Mein Bruder, Francis. You should not—," and with no more humans to hold him up, the kingdom fell.

Ivan watched in admiration as the man with a knife wedged deep in his back wheeled his dainty boned mare, and then looked straight at his standing opponent. Nothing other than the sparks of war danced in those lake clear eyes. Strength beyond passing existed for those who just let the madness wash them away. Ivan smiled. When he was all grown up, and Katyusha needed him to protect her, he would find this secret mad strength.

"You are beautiful."

Francis pulled out a gun. His horse thundered past the giant. He fired as the muzzle touched Ivan's nose. Russia fell, but not for long.

* * *

**July 1814 – Fredrikshald, Norway**

Skating like a demon over still river water, Norway could almost have been a child. Not a child once again, but a child, living, breathing, and running as fast as he could. This was Danmark's game. This was not him. But he needed to be on the other side of the city, and fighters running cack and forth in preparation for the coming war blocked the bridge over the Trista, so along the water course he would run. It was his water, and his land.

Focusing his intent, Norway ground his teeth. His land. _His_ land. He had always been a sovereign kingdom. Always. Even under Danmark he had owned his rivers, his fjords, and his mountains. Now, though, now he could feel the pull of Sweden who wanted control over him. Who wanted to use him. Who cared nothing about him except that he obey.

Even with hunger darting through his bones, Norway could be proud [31]. He could hold his head high. He could run.

Shining in summer calm, the rushing nation saw the islands rising through the water. Sweden waited patiently. Norway felt something hot and angry rumble through his body. There was something unflappably strong about the taller man. As if the beer and the maps had been some other person. Norway did not allow himself a bitter smile. Of course. Sweden always felt more sure of himself on a battle field. The cold land should be glad that the taller nation had not discovered that almost every act was a declaration of war in one way or the other.

Bright green unfurled, the branches of the trees on the island of Brattøya waved in the breeze, framing the man standing on barren rock as though he was one of their own. Betrayal crept its icy way into Norway's veins. His land should _never_ accept another nation like this. There was nor more union. No more sharing of land. They were on their own.

He jumped onto water smooth rock. A simple pole arm in his right hand, Sweden regarded him tightly, icily calm. "Time t' end th's ins'rection, Norge."

Unconsciously balling his fist, Norway glared. "Don't call me that."

A half step back; behind those fine ground lenses, Sweden looked shocked. Norway raised contemptuous eyebrows. Did Sweden really think, after everything that he had done, after refusing the independence that was rightfully Norway's, they could use the human names for one another? If Norway was just a resource to Sweden, Sweden had better be prepared to treat Norway as a resource. Impersonally.

"Norge—,"

Norway drew on the power of the earth. It was right there under his feet, and _his_. Green burst into flaring life above his arms, solidifying behind him. "Listen to me, Sweden: No more Norge. No more union. And get the Hell off _my_ land."

One gloved hand gripped the long staff with the pressure of unhappy anger. Norway could feel the internal battle. But Sweden was in control of himself right now. Tightly in control, which angered Norway far more than it had any right to. All he cared about was getting Sweden off his land.

"Y' c'n't win 'gainst me, Norge," Sweden began.

Norway twisted to the side, one arm outstretched. Already Sweden had his guard up, balancing his body on firm feet, even as the huge fist of the troll crashed right into his face. The staff spun, blasting viciously into the heavily muscled side of the magical construct. Leather shoes molding easily with the smooth rocks, Norway prowled the great nation, empty eyes seeking an opening.

A turn, and the blue coated back was to him, coat tails flying. Norway rushed forward, his knee coming up, as he grabbed the wide neck in the crook of one arm, crushing the Adam's apple and high collar in one go. The weak, shocked gargle was music to the shorter nation, pulling viciously back, as the knee dug into the small of Sweden's back. From the corner of one eye, he observed large hands grip the pole, and then his side exploded in sharp pain. With a grunt, Norway released his captive, right into on-coming troll fist.

Taking the blow, Sweden stumbled, and Norway kicked at the back of his knees. The crash of the huge nation against the Norwegian ground almost made the impassive face of his foe light with a grim smile. Stamping down on the nearest weapons grabbing hand, the young man was rewarded by a grunt of pain, which he took, and stored in his memories. Dropping swiftly, he pressed the long staff over Sweden's torso, pinning him to the rock, while the helpful troll sat on the long legs.

"Give up this stupid invasion and get out of my country. You didn't even bring your sword. You're not serious about this," Norway snarled.

Sweden tried to struggle upright, flexing his arms against Norway's strength. "Y' th'nk _y're_ s'rious?" he growled. "Y' 'nd y'r silly C'nst'ution?"

Norway had no idea if his expression grew colder, or burst into flames as a reflection of his sheer fury. If he dared take his hands off the staff, he would have punched Sweden. Repeatedly. Hard. And then drowned him. Well, he still could do that. It was unpleasant to drown. The lungs burned on the way down, and eventually you had to walk through the freezing water unless someone was kind enough to dive in after you. No one would dive in for Sweden.

"_My_ words, _my_ constitution, _my_ land, Sweden. It's all one and the same [30]!" Norway snarled.

"'Nd it's mine," icy blue eyes flashed.

Too incensed to think clearly, a savage fist swooped at Sweden's face. Norway had no idea what happened exactly. The troll suddenly flew backward into the water. The splash drenched Norway just as Sweden grabbed his arm.

The sky, pale blue and cloud filled, floated above his head. Then a Swedish boot slammed into his stomach. Norway gasped, his dead eyes sparking with hints of long buried emotion. Sweden leaned over he prostrate body, bringing his craggy face just out of reach of a punch. "C'm back t' th' house, Norge. Y're too weak f'r th's."

Pressing his palms against the rock, Norway reached deep into the earth. Fire. Heat. The molten well-spring of life. The butt of the pole slammed into bones and flesh of his hand, breaking his concentration. "St'ppit, Norge!"

Norway looked into a face almost as still as his own. But from the twitch of an eyebrow, he could tell that Sweden's anger refused to be entirely suppressed, and the small lines around the eyes suggested he was worried. Norway felt the sneer breaking over his face, which just made the muscle hiding behind the eyebrow jump even more erratically.

"Why're y' doin' this?" Sweden finally yelled. "Y' go t' _Danmark_ f'r anythin' but y' starve y'self t' spite me!"

_Hey, Norge, here's an orange. By the way, gotta joke to tell me? No. Well, that's okay, I haven't found any new ones, either._

"I'm hardly starving," clouds rolled over the sun, darkening, thickening, and spreading with the promise of rain. The staff thudded down again, pain shooting up Norway's arm. "Too late, Sweden, it's here already."

Energy. Norway pushed himself into the land once again, trying his hardest to ignore the strikes from the staff. Deep. Deeper. Through the crust and earth to the heat and power. Rocks as they should have been. Whack! The heat withdrew, or he withdrew from it. Reaching, straining, Norway—WHAM! And the power of the earth receded into the dark. The staff prodded his chin. The restrained ire blazed forth in a scream of longing at the sky, which obliged by deluging the two nations as the storm broke.

Blond hair sticking to his forehead, and entangled in his eyebrows, Sweden managed to get the tick under control. "Y' _done_ yet?"

Abandoned by the earth, Norway reached for the sky. Lightning played among the clouds, tossing and racing with the wind. That energy swimming excitedly through the air. He needed that power.

Sweden looked into the rain, a frown decorating the corners of his mouth. "Y' do th't 'nd y'll be struck, too. If y' wanna f'ght, le's _fight_, 'stead of dancin' like w'men," the boot heel ground into Norway's stomach, pushing against the ribcage. He could not breathe. "Y' d'n't e'en bringa w'pon."

Water splashed all around them. Norway's trees laughed in thirsty gladness. The streams welcomed the smaller brothers. Massing by bridges, and preparing themselves to battle Swedes, Norway suddenly _felt_ his humans standing on his ground. It was as though the water opened his ears and eyes for the first time. Norway emerged. The Constitution. The words. The Independence. No more unions. Ever. They were ready. He was strong. Made of rock and soil, carved through by water and wind, they did not care because he was of them, and they were going to fight because he was going to fight, and he was fighting because they were fighting, and just because they were brief, winking things did not mean that their words and deeds would take second place to the priorities of a mountain.

The rain slid off the rock, and down his shirt. However, the cold eyes remained clear. Bruised and possibly broken, his right hand knocked the staff from his chin, as his left chopped around, hitting the back of Sweden's knee, already bruised. The cliff of a man towering over him unbalanced his weight for just a moment, and grabbing his ankle, Norway rolled.

Sweden fell with a resounding splash, Norway rolling on top of him. Fists reigned down blow after blow, the back of the blond head hammering against the smooth rock, only barely cushioned by the water. One desperate hand clung to thin air for a second, those clear ice eyes wide in shock, and then they narrowed. The large hand clawed for Norway's hair, ripping out the cross shaped clip. Blood from Sweden's nose and mouth bloomed like lilies in sea blue. Overhead, a seagull's scream carried the conviction of the shorter man.

"What is it about sovereignty that is so _unappealing_ to you, Sweden? What is it about my men and women—,"

Trying to come up for air, his face running pink, Sweden roared. "Y' can't take care 'f y'self! Lookit y'. Want y' t' be s'fe! On y'r own, y' c'n't 'ven feed y'self!"

Norway felt his body slipping as the giant under him really began to struggle. Fingers curled high, the ball of his palm thudded in quick succession against the man's throat and ribcage. The left hand forced his foe under the water by the short icy blond hair. Choking, gasping, and inhaling, Norway could feel his sea enter Sweden's nose and mouth, rushing through his lungs with that special dull fire that could burn forever.

"I can, Sweden. And if I need something, I'll _ask_. I don't need anyone to _give_ me help I don't need. In fact," Norway sneered pulling Sweden's head above the surf, "I'll ask whomever I please, and pay them back. Including Danmark. _Especially_ Danmark, Sweden."

Sweden coughed , his broad chest expanding as he tried to force the sea water from his lungs. They were still so human, Norway thought with a jolt. Human bodies, human organs, human squishiness. But it was exactly from there that he was drawing the will to stand, and beat Sweden into a pulp with his bare fists. Some things you had to accept.

His fist swung in once more, shattering into Sweden's jaw. Snapping back, the huge nation's head disappeared beneath the waves once again. Complete aware of how heavy an unconscious body was, Norway hauled the sopping wet man from the ocean, his face grimly calm. He was much stronger now. He had words and thoughts, and burning ideas that would always be there, even long after the minds that had expressed them had died.

It was time for Sweden to get off his land. Norway threw him with all his might into the cold, salt water. Reaching into the earth once again, Norway grasped the glimmering energy, suddenly much closer than it had ever been, although it did help not having a hardwood staff beating one about the face. Closing his eyes, Norway called, and the sea responded, a nymph appearing to drag Sweden far down into the depths. He would be back, of course. But Norway was ready, and he was going to fight.

* * *

**March 1845 – Lund, Sweden**

Denmark grinned to himself, as his boots crunched through the grimmest remainders of winter, clinging whitely to the ground in defiance of the swiftly warming weather, and the hints of rain in the clouds. It was still his ground, he could feel it all around him, in the Swedish spoken in the shops, what with the people actually being slightly intelligible, and in the pranking university students who had managed to collect just enough of the last snow to chuck snowballs at unsuspecting passers by from the observatory roof. He hoped that Sverige was somewhere nearby, scowling.

A shaft of watery sunlight bounced from something dully golden, and Matthias whipped his head around so fast that he almost regretted it. Yes, floating just ahead of him was the curl of a man gazing at the dirty gray of the towering cathedral. The cheery smile that usually adorned Matthias' face turned into a shining, teeth bearing smirk of mischievous intent. It was a good time to be alive, but stirring up some of the old trouble was not objectionable, either.

He pounced, about to wrap the shorter in a bone popping hug, when, as predictable, Norway swung around, a fist whistling at his face. Denmark took the pain exploding across his nose as a good sign, since it still meant that Norway was strong and ready to defend himself. Putting up his hands, he tried to smile through watering eyes.

"Truce, truce. Ya gotta be more careful Norge. Any harder, and you would have knocked my hat off," the southern nation told his friend seriously, pointing with gray gloved fingers at a miniaturized top hat in dark red where there had once been a crown.

Norway regarded him with hooded eyes, before his gaze returned to the towers. Denmark felt cheated. However, soon Norway commented flatly: "Serves you right for nearly clobbering me with your case."

Guiltily Denmark looked down at the brass bound brown leather he was carrying. "Oh! Right, forgot about this, but hey! I have a present for you." Swiftly, he knelt on square cut cobbles, and popped open the catches of his traveling bag. Norway's head was engaged in watching the tree tops peeking out on the side of the road. He always preferred trees, Denmark thought ruefully. If he ever got into a serious war with Norway again, he'd have to confound the other with a small forest suffering from some solvable blight, or something. Still, grabbing the square package wrapped in brown paper with a string, and everything, Denmark thought he had found something that would distract the other nation. "Here!"

An eyebrow raised, as the calm nation took the heavy package. "It's a book."

Snapping the case closed once more, Denmark stood, utterly unconscious of the wet patches decorating his knees. "You don't know that. Open it! You can thank me as we walk."

The exasperated sigh did not escape the tall man's notice, as they began to stroll along the street. Still, he could hear the crinkle of paper ripping, as Norge was never one to treat something that he had taken time to wrap with love or care. Denmark glanced over, eagerly awaiting reaction. Blank eyes met his, and then turned back to the gift, as the right hand wadded the paper and string into an unconscious fist. "Oh, how you have managed to surprise me."

"Really?" Matthias asked, falling into the easy patter they had maintained in their conversation for centuries.

Another disparaging snort that only made Matthias' mouth twitch higher. "Obviously. No one else would ever manage to trick me into thinking that I was getting one book, when clearly there are two," Norway opened the one bound in green leather.

Feeling the need to point out other aspects of his gift than the surprising, Matthias began describing the marvelous traits contained within the two thick volumes. "See, they were both really heavy, and big, so I thought, hey, Norge likes heavy blunt instruments to hurt people with, and so, not only will they add hours of entertainment, but they have the kind of practical multi-purposing that I approve of."

"I could not help noticing that this one is in Danish," Norge began, closing the first book, and opening its dark blue counterpart. "As is this."

Denmark shrugged uncomfortably. He knew Norway was trying to do things with Norwegian to rid it of Danish influences, and maybe it was selfish, but he wanted to know that Norge could never truly get rid of the Danish floating in his tongue. "The authors wrote the books in Danish, Norge. What, did you think I was going to get you something Swedish?"

The blankness subtly changed from general indifference to scowling blankness. However, it was not directed at Denmark. He could tell this because the books were not being put to the practical use that he had suggested. Instead, Norge looked through the second book again, and shook his head. "Only you would give a books of fairy tales and philosophy in your human tongue, and then suggest that they be used as weaponry."

"Hey, Kirkegaard's a feisty man," Denmark replied [32]. "I even managed to get some of his journals in that volume. I mean, admittedly, I am his country, but he put up quite the fight when I told him that I was taking them to a printer's. I don't think anyone other than you has found that many pseudonyms for interfering imbecile. As of now, you have the only extant copy of that, just so you know. And if it shows up for sale, I've been told that I will be beheaded. With an axe."

Norge's eyebrows rose, and he nearly walked into some dog droppings, before Denmark pulled him out of the way by the arm. "You run around taking the journals of all of your intellectual elite?"

"Just the perfectly crazy ones," Denmark replied cheerily. "Plus copies of _Om Begrebet Ironi med stadigt Hensyn til Socrates_,_ Enten-Eller_,_ Frygt og Bæven_,_ Gjentagelsen_,and _Philosophiske Smuler_ [33]. It's a thick enough book for your purposes, Norge."

The young man shook his head. "And for good measure you left me some eventyr [34], just in case there was not enough in there to satisfy my needs."

"Don't forget the poem," Denmark added, very proud of Andersen's poem [35]. It was everything that he could ever have wanted. He reached up to tap a branch overhanging the cobbled walk, and ended up shaking down a shower of icy droplets on his shoulders. A carriage splashed past on the other side, yet Norge, who was closest to the street, managed to avoid the dirty slush with the prescience of something that was not entirely human.

Strolling as though nothing had occurred, Norge looked ahead. "Yes. The poem. You honestly believe that it is worth it?"

Denmark's eyes widened. "It's—I mean, think about it, Norge. Us three, uniting for real after all this time, it's the only thing that makes sense. We should be together. That's the way it was always mean to be, ya know? I'm just thrilled that I'm not the only one who is suggesting it, this time. I never thought that there would be a time when I could get everyone back in my house without having a war—which you're right, I kinda get beat each time I try to start them. C'mon, aren't you excited? I can help you mess with Sverige, and everything will—,"

Norway turned to him, stopping where the cobbles of the walk turned into the compacted dirt of the walk to the library where they were supposed to be having their meeting, and listening to the students give their presentations. "Everything will be what, Danmark? Please, another union? I'm still Swedish territory! There can't be a great union if we aren't equals!"

Taking a step back, the large blond tried to reduce the anger of his friend. "But, Norge, I've always treated you as an—,"

"I'm a trophy for you and Sweden to toss back and forth, Danmark! Face the reality: there will never be a united Scandanavia. Not until I'm a sovereign power—,"

"I thought that you and Sverige had settled things," Denmark began, feeling bewildered by the outburst. Everything had gone back to fairly normal once Norway paid his way out of the debt from the Norwegian-Swedish war, right? _Really, I don't need the money, Norge. Heh. Never seen someone threaten to have a troll beat their debt collector up if they didn't take their money. You should make a joke about that and tell it to me, some time. _

"Back when the debt was acquitted and he said that there would be no more Danish interference in," the sentence trailed off with a rather ugly realization that it was going to end in 'Swedish affairs' which did sound a _little_ as though Norway had no say in the matter. _Well, Sverige, I have to keep coming 'round, 'cause there this joke Norge still owes—all right then. Guess you're right about that. It is getting old._

Norway snorted, point proved, and crossed his arms. "It helps settling matters when you invite England, Russia, Prussia, and Austria all in one room to explain why independence is not in my best interest [36]. My silly constitution. Hah! I _will_ be sovereign by my own choices. I paid my debt back. That was something. The superior, arrogant _fool_ can't take that from me."

_Read your Constitution, Norge, and I couldn't help noticing a lack of humor. Wouldn't a joke spice it up just a little bit? _They continued walking, Denmark feeling rather uncomfortable with the whole thing. Because unification was the true answer to making everything work properly again.

Trying to work out his thoughts, the once-ruler tried: "Well, I'm not talking about union. More of, I don't know. Peace time alliance? Like, times where we get together, you know, like this, and hear what people have to say, and try to work out what's best."

"And then invade the German states when you need _more_ allies?" Norway suggested in a voice that bordered on innocent and sweet for him. "Or are we going to be allies like you and Netherlands [37]?"

Denmark scowled, his mood shifting to black. The Kungshuset loomed before them, reminding him that he needed to be in a better mood, or simply talking to Sweden was going to become a fight. "Ludwig and Prussia need to learn their places a bit, alright? But that just means that I'm gonna have to take them out back and beat them a bit. Nothing that you two need to get involved in. Unless," Denmark's eyes gleamed a hopeful sky blue, "you would want to join me? It would be great."

Norway did not reply, passing an ungloved hand along the bark of one of the trees shading the short boulevard to the library. That was reply enough, though, and discouraged, Denmark clasped his hands behind his back, gazing at the gray sky. For the length of the beaten track, they remained silent. Just before Norway pushed open the left leaf of the old wooden doors, he looked over his shoulder at Denmark, the featureless eyes almost calculating.

"Danmark, how is Island doing?" [38]

Biting the inside of his cheek, Denmark managed by dint of great effort not to yell. "He's fine. Got his own house now, and everything. Still take care of him, of course. He couldn't have food otherwise."

Norway felt disgust roll in a cold wave down his spine, and curl in his gut. "You should take good care of him, Faroe and Grønland."

"I told you, they're _fine_. You think I'm incompetent at taking care of people? I held a union together for—,"

"For as long as we all put up with you," Norge snapped.

That was it, Denmark thought, as their shoes hit the stone paving of the first floor hall, heading toward the room Sweden had painstakingly given them directions to. Norge was never coming back. Not even if he won free of Sweden. He would stay independent. That hurt. It really hurt. Like a glass splinter through the heart [39].

He couldn't really put a grin on the situation, but he tried anyway, because Norway got mean if he thought he had the advantage. "Aw, c'mon. Just because Sverige and Finland decided to leave a little early doesn't mean that you found it all that bad. And it was loads better than just dealing with Sverige now, right?"

The glance tossed his way was expressively exasperated. "Shut up."

Seeing an opening, like a good fighter, Denmark took it. "You know I'm still there for you, when you want help against him."

"If I choose to ask for help, I will," and, of course, Norge gave no ground, because that was the way _he_ fought. "Right now, however, it appears that we won't be attacking Russia any time soon, so I doubt that I need any help."

Denmark shook his head. "Is he still on that?" the man asked, as though he had not spent centuries failing to return his brother country to his control. "I'm glad I gave _you_ the book with the unrequited man love in it."

That made Norge blink rapidly. "What?"

"Oh, I also got a hold of some of the letters and journals that Hans has kept, 'cause, well, I thought that you might want an appendix of some sort," Denmark nodded at the green bound book under the elbow of Norway's blue jacket. "It's not as though it's the only thing in them, but he is quite the romantic. Great at falling in love with people. Just hasn't gotten the second part of it down quite pat [40]."

Pushing open the door, Norway could not help shaking his head. "How can you get so _involved_ in the lives of your people? I—things have been different since the Constitution, but he's human, Danmark."

The room was empty of anything but books, and a nervous looking young human whose mouth dropped open seeing the two men. Denmark winked at the student, answering the question even as he wondered if this was one of those special people who lived and breathed their nation. Red coated Denmark had been under the impression that Sweden did not have many of those. Or at least many that he acknowledged. Certainly not since his Northern Lion.

However, he had a clueless Norge to illuminate, and as this was a rare condition, he wanted to take the chance presented to act like an older, wiser teacher. "I want to know him because he clearly knows me. Is that a crime, Norge? I care for people."

The blank expression he received in return seemed to be blank because there was nothing to fill it. Denmark was not certain. Norway was hard to read, and he'd known Norge for ages. Quite literally. Plus, the blond chose to turn away, hunting for a handy chair, rather than allow Denmark to seek for anything beneath the blank mask.

Frustrated, the southern nation sighed, as Norway found the only arm chair in the room, and sat down, flipping open the blue bound philosophical text. Just typical, really. After a few quiet seconds, Denmark was aware of being watched. He glanced at Norge, after his questioning expression sent the student running from the room.

Deep blue eyes assessed him for a moment over the top of the page, and when he met them, Norge finally spoke. "You didn't ask me if I had heard any good jokes lately."

Matthias felt his delighted mirth shine through his skin, and he leaned forward, ready to pounce. "Really? You've got one for me?"

The answer was delivered with the typical Norwegian ability to deliver a punch to the face. "No."

Denmark sat back grinning against the rejection. "My breaking routine irritates you that much, huh?"

"Hardly," Norge turned a page. "I merely am suggesting that each time you ask, the answer might be different, because my circumstances in relation to humor might be different."

The lips closed as Demark's smile curled wider. "You know, that's the longest sentence that I've gotten out of you in a long time, Norge."

Norge did not reply, preferring to reading the thoughts of a Danish man on paper, instead. Maybe he had sensed the approaching men, because the door swung open, and Sverige stood there. The chill that suddenly sprang through the room amazed Denmark. Neither of his northern neighbors looked at once another, but both were trying so hard to pretend that the other was not attending this meeting that it felt like a fight. Matthias was simply left in confusion because he could not see any weapons or feel any magic present. Deciding to forge ahead anyway, because he _wanted_ this to work, Denmark nodded at the tall figure.

Besides, when he had so recently coiled his body for a spring, there did not seem to be any reason why he should not use it, even if he was not going to be using it on the original springee. "Sverige! I got a big hug for you!"

Sweden cleared his throat in a fairly obvious imitation of Norway's contemptuous snorts. "D'n't e'en try it. Th' stud'nts 'll be h're at four. Th'n w' c'n listen."

Rolling his eyes, Denmark pulled a chair away from its resting place by a window. "What about talking? We could do some of that, too."

Ice clear eyes focused on him for a moment, and then went back to fiercely ignoring the presence of Norway. "'M ready t' listen. Talkin' wit' y'sa whole o'her matt'r."

* * *

**Baatan Peninsula – April 1942** [41]**  
**

_Bataan has fallen._

The radio crackled in Alfred's ears. He looked up, tear stained, into the older impassive, dead face of Kiku. Japan. For a moment he fell into the black pits of Japan's eyes. Black and immaculate white. What other terrifying murderous psychopath would use such colors, and come out with even the gold untarnished?

"Your leader is a coward," Japan observed.

They could have been drinking tea in a cool house on rush mats with cushions under their knees. Instead, Japan stood over America, blade neatly sheathed, guns properly holstered. He looked so tall from this position, and even on his knees, America's eye level was higher than Japan's navel, but the man's soullessness put him even higher, soaring in the clouds with the angels.

A fly landed on the sticky blood draining from Alfred's temple. It began to feast, and with hands bound Alfred could do nothing to shoo him away. He licked chapped lips. Over the hill the waves of the sparkling ocean crashed and foamed. Waves his general was traveling while he was left here with the men and some of the states, most of the others in Europe or Africa, ready to put themselves under Canada's control, or even England's in a pinch.

Looking over the sea, Japan contemplated the loss of honor, and the shambles of war destroyed villages. "You could be in London right now, if you wanted," he commented.

The words hurt worse than the radio. He was America. He did not ever, not ever abandon his men. "I'm _here_, Japan."

The man nodded curtly, still looking at the ocean, troubled. America remembered the words. They were not savages. "Yet your general is not here."

Light flashed off Alfred's glasses as he lifted his head proudly. "The fact that I am here is proof that he will come back, though. He promised me."

Japan's face remained immobile as he turned from the sea, and nodded at Alfred. "Excuse me," a gun whipped out. The black muzzle centered on the dark face of Philippines, lovely and gagged, her orange eyes flaring with hatred.

Alfred stared. Japan would not—the delicate finger squeezed the trigger in a sure movement. Philippines' head exploded outward. Most of her face was left intact as she fell, smoking black and red pouring from her skull.

_The Philippine-American troops on this war-ravaged and bloodstained peninsula have laid down their arms. With heads bloody but unbowed, they have yielded to the superior force and numbers of the enemy._

"Why did you do that?" America's voice cracked up through the higher register.

Japan replaced the gun. He focused his attention on America. "She is a whore. Her cowardly people will put her back together, as they always do."

A lump formed in Alfred's throat. He couldn't swallow. God, Japan's certainty, his pure white, clean certainty was choking him. "We surrendered to you! God, she's just a girl! How dare you—,"

Japan raised an eyebrow. "I've known her longer than you, America. I knew her before Spain defiled her. I knew her before you stole her kisses, breaking her heart. I know how she lives through wars. This is nothing to her. This is the way of things. You, unfortunately, are not the way of things."

The fly had been joined by a friend, and now they were buzzing in his ear, talking excitedly about their meal. Blood in the sunlight, tainted with the honey sweetness of ripening fruit smell. The broad leaves were particularly vibrant. Alfred focused on those, and not Japan. Leaves. Leaves.

He left.

Minnesota, Hawaii, Kentucky, New Mexico, Illinois, Washington, Oregon and California were among the men, overlooked by Japan as everyone else overlooked them. The humans had their encouragement, and heroic spirit, but did they have America when their leaders left them stranded in a tropical wasteland?

America bowed his head, tears beginning to fall.

_The world will long remember the epic struggle that Filipino and American soldiers put up in the jungle fastness and along the rugged coast of Bataan._

Japan's scars had healed, while Alfred was still bleeding. He tipped America's head up to view the sun. "I am confused. Your men show cowardice. Your leader is the most vile of scum. Yet, you are here, for their humanity. It is to be commended. I have to think what I must do about you."

"I'm going with my men," Alfred could boast that his voice did not waver, even though it was a trifle thick.

Japan studied the ground for a moment, contemplating his actions before addressing his captive once again. "No. They did not fight to the last man. Your bravery will be no solace to them."

_They have stood up uncomplaining under the constant and grueling fire of the enemy for more than three months. Besieged on land and blockaded by sea, cut off from all sources of help in the Philippines and in America, the intrepid fighters have done all that human endurance could bear._

"Three months, Kiku. They've been at this for three months!" Alfred protested, only to be hit in the jaw by something hard and painful. It surprised him to see that it was Kiku's palm.

The island nation looked down at him, not quite meeting his eyes, but keeping his gaze on the curl of Nantucket rising from Alfred's hair. "Do not talk back," he paused, another moment of consideration passing as the flies cleaned blood from Alfred's skin. "A-America-san this will be easier if we remain nations."

Alfred could not help the aghast expression that crossed his face. This wasn't personal? Someone over the ridge began barking in Japanese, which, this far away, Alfred was not good enough to translate. Japan brushed dust from his sleeves. "Your men are being moved now. I understand that you are young, but this is the way of things, and trust me, these things are easier when we remain nations, rather than brothers or friends."

"Three months," Alfred tried again, his lips splitting, and running with red.

The palm took his other cheek, breaking blood vessels under the skin's surface. "Do not talk back," Japan repeated, gazing at him with a clear expression. "Especially about something so silly. England has held out for two _years_. He will hold out to the end. Unlike you, America."

_For what sustained them through all these months of incessant battle was a force that was more than merely physical. It was the force of an unconquerable faith—something in the heart and soul that physical hardship and adversity could not destroy! It was the thought of native land and all that it holds most dear, the thought of freedom and dignity and pride in these most priceless of all our human prerogatives._

The first death left America queasy. Then they came pouring over him. The realizations, the horror, sights that the fields of France had echoed twenty four years ago, but only in the pale mist of mustard gas, and not in watercolor glory.

"God! Kiku! Stop them!" Alfred screamed. "Those are my people! Please stop them!"

Kiku's white knee came up, cracking his chin, before the neat black shoe whirled around, and smashed into the American face.

America toppled, hitting blood rich soil, through which the ripped, defeated screams from inside the human hearts came even more clearly. He stared at the bullet destroyed Philippines, his reflection shining in glassy orange eyes. Flower eyes, she had told him. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered. His awareness of the land increased ten fold, and he reached out to the men marching and the women chopped to pieces, and the people raped, and everyone suffering, only to find Japan's boots in front of him, and Japan's ancient nation knowledge bearing down like a mountain of rock he could never scale, even if he were half the hero Captain America was.

The soldiers would have no help from America. The leader had abandoned them, and would never know what it was like to march with them. To starve with them. To thirst with them.

Alfred closed his blue eyes. California was there, with soldiers who had come from her sunny fields, and strong mountains, and she took the lead, holding every aspect of Alfred that she could imagine in her, spreading herself among them, supporting Kentucky, who had his organs turning to mush from the inside out as they marched together. Washington and Oregon marched, friendly jokes passing silently between them in the shape of a hand, and a twist of an eyebrow as they held the line. Minnesota and Illinois took turns holding Hawaii together, their rivalry forgotten, as they tried to bind her back up, slashed to pieces trying to protect some locals. And all alone, at the back, New Mexico held the hands of white service men who would never have given him a second look at home. Once, he looked over a green uniformed shoulder, and then set his hazelnut brown eyes resolutely ahead, because Alfred could not be here.

_The adversary, in the pride of his power and triumph, will credit our troops with nothing less than the courage and fortitude that his own troops have shown in battle._

Japan pulled Alfred to his feet. "Get moving. You will reach the camp a day after your men arrive. From there, I will send you back to Europe."

Alfred could have struggled. He should have struggled. But he had agreed to do this. He would see it through to the end. No matter what. Because that was what people who were doing the right thing did. They stuck it out.

Instead, he walked. And for every corpse they passed, Japan took out the sword, and cut him with the shining steel.

_Our men have fought a brave and bitterly contested struggle. All the world will testify to the most superhuman endurance with which they stood up until the last in the face of overwhelming odds. But the decision had to come._

The third time Alfred dropped, Japan shot off the fingers on his right hand. He placed the barrel of the revolver in the cupped palm, where fingers laced together, and Alfred did not have the presence of mind to do more than try to jerk one hand out of the way. Japan's eyes remained blank. Alfred, forgetting the rules, sobbed out a broken 'why?'

The crickets answered for a moment, hiding under the starlight. Then Japan simply answered him. Not forgetting the rules, but remembering that Alfred was a new nation, with no experience of the world. "Because you must know what your humans feel for their cowardice. Because you are weak, and refuse to fight."

Alfred, his eyes itching pinkly, struggled once again to his feet. "I am fighting!"

Japan appeared to be confused. "You have surrendered to me."

"And. I. Am. Still. Here. A fight doesn't just mean your fists. I'm fighting you with my spirit, and mind, and heart, and everything that makes me, me, and I'm doing it for my people."

The eyes hooded. Japan became so still that a moth fluttered around his face. Unfreezing took a matter of moments, however. "If you do not use everything available against me, you do not deserve to live, and neither do your men."

_Men fighting under the banner of unshakable faith are made of something more that flesh, but they are not made of impervious steel. The flesh must yield at last, endurance melts away, and the end of the battle must come._

Kiku rammed the sword into Alfred's stomach cavity. He pulled up. Ribs split open, disgorging vital contents all over the soil of the Philippines. Not a drop of blood touched his uniform. Through the steel soul that he held expertly in America's throat, allowing the boy to gargle his last, he could feel the question.

Whipping the sword away, Japan answered America: "White is the color of death, of course."

_Bataan has fallen, but the spirit that made it stand—a beacon to all the liberty-loving peoples of the world—cannot fall!_

America fell before the gates of Camp O'Donell.

* * *

**Footnotes and Annotations**

* * *

[1] - King Zygmunt Vasa, the Catholic cousin of Gustavus Adolphus who is better known to the Swedish as Sigismund. He was discussed a little last chapter. After Sweden's conversion to Protestantism, a law was passed that declared Catholics could not hold royal office. Sigismund had to abdicate in favor of Gustav's father, and left for Poland. Once he rose to power in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, the king did several important things like moving Poland's capital to Warsaw, and declare War on Sweden, because he wanted his throne back, and the Reformation stunk, in his opinion.

[2] - 'Królowa Polska' is 'Queen Poland' in Polish. Prussia probably meant it as an insult originally, but we all know how Feliks is.

[3] - 'Multa sunt opes' is hopefully very bad Latin for 'You seem to have many resources.'

[4] - Concerns like Sweden. Poland-Lithuania managed to avoid the Thirty Years' War almost entirely, but it has entered a time known as the Deluge, where everyone and their neighbor tries to attack the Commonwealth, including a few of the Egyptian plagues, it seems. But most of the trouble can be summed up as: "There is an incredibly strong newly minted empire that we threatened to make into a new duchy angrily stomping around our fields. Oh crap."

[5] - 'honori et pietati' is Latin for, unless false cognates are playing a game with me, 'honor and piety.' These are also the opening lines engraved on King Zygmunt's Column.

[6] - 'Rosja' is Polish for 'Russia'

[7] - 'Warsawa' is Polish for 'Warsaw'

* * *

[8] - The alliance between Prussia and Great Britain will stand Prussia in very good stead as the Seven Years' War is about to break out in less than three months, and Great Britain and the German States will be Prussia's only allies in this war. Of course, we all know that it will also firmly establish Prussia as an Empire when he is finished kicking the rest of Europe all over the battle field.

[9] - Here is where I am diverting from canon hard and fast. It has been mentioned that the post-HRE German territories are all their own people, with Prussia refering to having brothers Hesse and Saxony. For the sake of my own sanity, Ludwig is already the unified representation of Germany. I might write a fic one day with Lutz taking over the hundreds of broken little territories left in the wake of the Thirty Years' War that will reconcile cannon with personal fannon, but honestly, it would be a depressing fic.

[10] - Saxony was staunchly anti-Prussian, as it saw the huge territory as a real threat to German sovereignty. Saxony tried to use the Seven Years' war to take pieces from the Prussian Empire, and chop it down to size. Unfortunately for all of Saxony's attempts, this did not work.

[11] - Sweden took that opportunity. It lost.

* * *

[12] - 'Tanska' is Finnish for 'Denmark.' If that seems like a weird linguistic switch, remember that the Danes are descended from the Tani. So, really we can blame this on the sounds for 'D' and 'T' not being too far off from one another, and probably at one point, the same sound. From there it diverges.

[13] - 'Venäjä' is Finnish for 'Russia.' Sorry I did not look up 'Imperial Russia' for this one. I feel that Tino, being nice and all, likes to think that he's on informal name basis with most of the countries he knows and borders. Levels of formality going from most formal to most intimate: 'Full title in universal language (in my fanfic English, because, I'm most familiar with it)' 'Common name in universal' 'Title in the speaker's tongue' 'Common name in speaker's tongue' 'Full title in the tongue of the person being addressed' 'Common name in the language of the person being addressed' 'Personal names'

[14] - 'Kymijoki' is the Finnish name of the Kymi River.

[15] - A backsword is a single edged sword with a fairly thick blunt edge, or back, that tapers into the sharp edge. Mainly it is used as a cavalry sword, and can be carried slung across the back.

[16] - 'Kenraali Talvi' is literally 'General Winter' in Finnish.

[17] - 'Viha' is the Finnish word for 'wrath,' as in the Great and Lesser Wraths explained last chapter.

[18] - 'Что' is pronounced 'Chto' and is Russian for 'What'

[19] - Finlandiya

[20] - Da

[21] - 'Россiйкая Имперiя' is pronounced 'Rossiikaya Imperiya' and is Russian for 'Russian Empire.'

* * *

[22] - Denmark has just finished defeating England's ship the _Swan_. Raiders boarded the ship, but it sank just off the Swedish coast, although in territory that has been fought over between Sweden and Norway for centuries. The history of Uddevalla in a sentence is: This was a Norwegian possession, then it became a Swedish possession, then it became a Norgegian possession, then it became a Swedish possession, then it became a Norgegian possession, then it became a Swedish possession, then it became a Norgegian possession, then it became a Swedish possession, then it became a Norgegian possession, and then it was Sweden's again. Rinse, wash, and repeat.

[23] - The loss of Finland hit Sweden HARD, and it was at truce with France in 1811. Sweden would not re-enter the Wars until the War of the Sixth Coalition, which would finally defeat Napoleon.

[24] - Sweden's king at the time, Gustav IV, was considered to be completely incompetent (this is a theme in the Napoleonic wars, see Spain's 'Ferdinand the Desired'. I think that the various monarchies had been suffering from bad leadership all along. Just having a swift, brutal, and efficient leader like Napoleon in the arena really showed off how bad various kings had become, and gave the excuse for reforms in power structures to start going down). Gustav IV was blamed for the poor Swedish military efforts that lost Finland, and was deposed in a coup d'etat in March 1809, with the caveat that his ENTIRE family could never be in line for the throne of Sweden again. He came to the throne, just to note, because of the assassination of Gustav III. They play politics hard in Sweden.

* * *

[25] - 'Du alte Arschloch' is German for 'ya old asshole.' Please note Gilbert's use of the informal, familiar 'you.' I imagine he is begin pretty rude for 19th century German standards. Admittedly, his grammar probably would be better than my own.

[26] - 'Sie kommen nicht! Kennst du dass? Meinen Leute kommen nicht. Dein General würde storben, und dann ist nur uns. Uns und Francis' is German for 'They're not coming! Don't you get it? My people aren't coming. Your General is going to die, and then it's just us. Us and Francis.'

[27] - 'Zaristischen Russland' is German for 'Imperial Russia'

[28] - 'Королевство Пруссия' is pronounced 'Korolevstvo Prussiya' and is Russian for 'Kingdom of Prussia'

[29] - 'Meine Leute die heir sind, dafür bleibe ich! Du kannst irgend wo anders gehen, verdammte Bär' is German for 'I'm staying here for my people! You, you damned bear, can go somewhere else.' This is anachronistic, as Russia is still associated with the Imperial eagle at this point, rather than the bear imagery that will develop in the 20th century, however, Prussia is fond of his birds, and wouldn't use them as an insult.

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[30] - Before and during the Campaign Against Norway, Norway was suffering from a food shortage. Sweden offered to give the Norwegians the food. After all how better to show that you will be a good overlord than actually being useful during a crisis? Norway refused, turning to Denmark for help, and the Danish sold them what they wanted. This became part of a large debt that Norway managed to rack up with Denmark, added onto money still owed from the union days. Sweden again tried to help defray the debt. Norway did the diplomatic equivalent of telling Sweden to go do inappropriate things with barnyard animals, and paid back the debt to Denmark through foreign loans, which then it painstakingly paid back to the lenders. Norway takes self-determination _seriously_.

[31] - Norway, as part of the nationalist movement springing from this whole 'it's been almost 500 years since we were truly independent. We can handle ourselves now, thanks,' began looking into ways to make Norwegian more of it's own language, rather than a lyrical version of Danish. At the moment, it's just beginning, but by the 1840s they were seriously full swing into trying to separate the tongues. Standard Norwegian is still very closely related to Danish, of course, but there are other variants, with their own written expressions that are closer to street Norwegian, and reflect dialect differences more strongly. I'm not certain if this is a good analogy for Americans, but think of the differences between Los Angelos Spanglish, and standard English? If anyone, Norwegian or otherwise has a better model, I'd be glad to use it.

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[32] - Søren Kirkegaard was possibly the only non-German 19th century philosopher who gained renown. Germans have serious chops in the philosophy department, and Kirkegaard took them all on, writing satirical, dense, complex arguments, and counter arguments. He particularly despised Hegel, but then again, everyone despised Hegel, who was considered the acme of his art. A proud native of Copenhagen, he was considered rather annoying and weird by the rest of the philosophical community. Also, I didn't notice this, because the picture in my copy of _Philosophical Fragments_ isn't that good, but he has Denmark's hair, and taste in long coats. Really. Go look for some pictures on line. It's really cool.

[33] - '_Om Begrebet Ironi med stadigt Hensyn til Socrates_' is the Danish title of '_On the Concept of Irony with Continual Reference to Socrates_;' '_Enten-Eller_' is the Danish title of '_Either/Or_;' '_Frygt og Bæven_' is the Danish title of '_Fear and Trembling_;'_ 'Gjentagelsen_' is the Danish title of '_Repetition_;' and '_Philosophiske Smuler_' is the Danish title of '_Philosophical Fragments_.' All were written before 1845. However, this is a bespoke volume (hey, if you're a nation, Denmark figures, you should be able to use the power that gives you) and Norway is the only one with these texts and the copies of the journals bound in one nicely heavy blue leather volume.

[34] - 'eventyr' is Danish and Norwegian for 'fairy tales'

[35] - Has Cristian Andersen wrote a poem called _Jeg er Skandinav_ which became something like an anthem for the Scandinavian unity movement.

[36] - As mentioned earlier, the great European powers, tried to mediate peace between Sweden and Norway. England, particularly, did not wan an independent Norway, partially as punishment for siding with France, and partially because if Norway was independent it might rebuild its navy to challenge English shipping interests, and partially because the kind of independence Norway was suggesting set a dangerous precedent. The French revolution had collapsed on itself, and America was a backwards, powerless area over the ocean. If Norway's heavily liberal constitution proved the viability of a democratic state, that might spell the end of the status quo, which England rather liked. However, England and Russia were also leery of increasing Swedish power, and Prussia was busy trying to deal with the beginnings of German unification, as well as interminable squabbles with Austria, which was discovering that peasants get antsy when there are no reforms to their ways of life in a country, but all the neighboring countries have given landowning status to their farmers. Basically, the European powers turned into looming goons who didn't really want to do anything to empower Sweden, but also wanted to keep Norway under control.

[37] - The Netherlands relationship with the Scandinavian countries basically relied upon how much money Dutch merchants had to pay to have access to the Baltic. The Dutch were rich and powerful, and they wanted to become richer and more powerful, so whenever Sweden tried taxing shipping, Netherlands cosied up to Denmark, and happily attack Sweden. When Denmark did the same, the Netherlands would switch sides. Still, the Netherlands seemed to have favored the Danes, as the default alliance almost always seemed to be with Denmark, until Denmark did something that the Netherlands felt was detrimental to Dutch interests. Unfortunately, if Denmark was the aggressor in a war that the Dutch did not have an economic stake in, the Dutch would tell the Danes to go jump in a canal. The alliance was not fair weather, precisely, but it was certainly not stable.

[38] - I said in the historical note that Denmark did not treat its Norwegian possessions well. Luckily, someone has already summed up about how well Denmark treated them, so I don't have to explain too much. This little comic is from Humon's _Scandinavia and the World_ series. If you're a Nordics fan, I highly recommend looking through everything that has been posted: ht tp: / browse. deviantart. com / ?qh = §ion; = &global = 1&q = denmark+norway# / d2yk1wa Copy, paste, and delete the spaces.

[39] - Guess what Andersen fairy tale this one is from. It was published in the year that this scene takes place, but probably after March (sorry, I couldn't find the month of publication). Sadly the usefulness of this tale as an analogy is limited. I just love the imagery.

[40] - Hans was really romantic, and had several people on whom he crushed quite badly. However, not only does it seem that his feelings were never returned (although one of the men upon whom he bestowed his affections wrote that it was sad to cause his friend such pain, but he didn't feel for Hans that way), he died a virgin.

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[41] - This section was hard to write. Finally, I took the radio address from Radio Freedom announcing the fall of Bataan in '32, and did an interpretative close reading of it. The prose of the actual announcement are beautiful and stirring. I chose to juxtapose each sentence/section rather than confirm the words because _Eight Men_ is not about celebrating the strong spirit that brings people through a war, but rather the way extreme violence breaks people, and changes them. I am worried that it might seem as though I am being disrespectful. If anyone has any suggestions as to how to handle this scene, I would be thrilled to have them.

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Thank you very much for reading. So, Ivan, I wrote him slightly more sanely than I have in the last two chapters. I'm wondering if that worked for him. I tried for an insane Russia, to keep the character consistent, but he really was just too tired for anything more than basic thought processes. I'm having difficulties with this chapter, and I think I came across too heavy handed. Any suggestions for improvement? Any sections just drag for you? How is the plot for you guys? Do you see where I'm going with this? Why I'm doing things this way?

~ MF


	4. That Which Suffers

**Author's Note**: We're saying good bye to the last of the 18th century, and to me, that's sad, as I am growing more and more attached to Old Fritz. He pops up so much in my research, and I still haven't gotten to do anything with him, really. I'm also in awe of Marie Theresa. She kicked so much butt. But that has been depicted, you know, in cannon already. Maybe I just have a thing for strong female leaders (as well as leaders who challenged sexual norms in general. I love Voltaire's depiction of Fritz. We all know it's true), and there are several really cool ones to choose from in the 1700s. But there were in the 1500s as well. Dunno what happened in the 1600s, oh, wait: SWEDEN DOMINATES! Hurrah for Queen Christina.

Finally: Okay, now that I've got the fun stuff out of my system, this chapter is _dark_. I realize that this will come as no surprise to any of you lovely people favoriting, story/author alerting, and reviewing, but this is heading into dark even for normal MF-writing territory. There is heavily implied rape in this chapter. Maybe I'm just too inured to violence as an American, and didn't see the need to warn about the liver drop last chapter, but I do see implied rape as needing a big fat warning label. For those who just want to skip entirely over the grim stuff, we get back to more betrayal and killing in two weeks time. If you're just looking for a warning in preparation for reading: The sections containing the implications are Prussia's "Grodno" section, Poland's "Free City of Krakow" section, and Denmark's "Vienna" section. If you wish to read everything but the nasty sections Control (or Command, if you are a Mac user) F, and type in "Turku, The Grand Duchy of Finland" which will pull you past the scene with Poland and Prussia. To get past the explicit mention of Austria's role in partitioning Poland in the "Free City of Krakow" section, so Control F, with "Moscow Russia" to skip over that, if you feel the need. The most explicit section occurs in the "October 1864 - Vienna, Austria," section. To skip over that, Control F again for "Moscow, Russia," to move past the scene dealing with Denmark after Slesweg has been forcibly seized by Prussia.

**Warnings:** Prussia using threats of seizing Warsaw in a sexual manner; hungover unhappy!Sweden; Austria using kindness to be excessively cruel; Denmark losing his territory to an angry Prussia and Austria; and Ivan on Bloody Sunday.

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**Eight Men**

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**Historical Notes**

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Grodno** - The Second Partition of Poland was not as violently dramatic as the First Partition, because the Polish Grodno Sjem (the Polish parliament that met at Grodno, while the Polish Lithuanian Commonwealth was intact, the Sjem moved its meeting location every session so it could have a better view of the conditions within the land, supposedly) had been bribed to simply give land to Russia and Prussia. The reason that no one on the international stage complained was because at that point Poland's only ally was Prussia. This was a poor alliance brought about by Austria's betrayal of Poland-Lithania, which had caused the First Partition. Originally the Commonwealth had allied with Austria because they were in the same boat, two formerly powerful kingdoms who were surrounded by other kingdoms (Prussia and Russia) that were eying their lands with predatory expressions. Together they were a strong force, even if separately they were very weak. No one would dare attack Poland-Lithuania while it could call on Austria, and no one would attack Austria while it could call on Poland-Lithuania.

Unfortunately, Austria got into this thing call the Seven Years' War with Prussia, and when Poland-Lithuania, which, it turned out, had to remain fairly neutral because of Prussia's actions, tried to help Austria, the Prussians got wind of it. Rather than open up a fifth front, Old Fritz flooded the Polish-Lithuanian market with counterfeit gold. This busted the Commonwealth's economy and while the government tried to repair it, they started to pass some revolutionary reforms for the peasantry, because the entire system needed an overhaul, and why not do it all at once? This made Austria freak out, as its peasants grumbled: "Hey, why do they get to eat if we can't? You should enact the same reforms," and Catherine the Great, in the same boat with her peasants, sidled up to Austria and said: "Prussia and Russia have been looking for a little help taking on Poland-Lithuania, so join us in suppressing this crazy ally of yours." Austria agreed, and that's how the three countries decided to carve chunks out of Poland the first time.

So, Poland had just lost Lithuania, and Russia was now on the border, eying Poland hungrily, since, _obviously_, it didn't get enough the first time around. Poland needed an ally, because even though Austria really disapproved of the democratic reforms that Poland was trying to institute, Poland wanted those reforms. So, it looked around at the only neighbors it had powerful enough to protect it. Austria, reform hating, was out. Russia, controlled by the Polish-land hungry enlightened despot Catherine the Great, was REALLY out. Sweden was busy forging a non-aggression pact with Denmark-Norway, and Poland hadn't had the best relationship with it since that Catholic-Protestant business in the 1600s, anyway. Plus, Sweden was pretty weak since that little Northern War business. That left Prussia, who honestly didn't mind the reforms as long as it didn't get too messy. So, against religious, political and cultural boundaries Poland allied with Prussia. Unfortunately, Prussia then got BEAT by France in the War of the First Coalition. Prussia lost a chunk of land, and it's allies, the German States, were in danger from a Revolutionary France that was swiftly destabilizing into utter chaos. So Prussia wanted more land. Co-incidence! Russia wanted more land, too, and Catherine the Great was worried that the Polish political reforms would spread to the the bits of Lithuania that she held, and she would have to deal with more peasant uprisings as they clamored for silly things like rights and food. So, she asked Prussia to look the other way while she took a tiny piece of Poland. Prussia said, "sure, as along as the Prussian Empire gets the best parts of the west." And thus, Poland was stabbed in the back and carved up a SECOND time.

**Turku** - Finland was treated quite well for a country captured by Russia. Perhaps it was memory of the way the Finns had fought in the Wraths, or a deal made with Sweden to keep relations friendly with Bernadotte, or simply the fact that Finland was not a very productive area in comparison to the rest of Russia, or because the Finns did such a good job of convincing Russia that they weren't going to be any trouble as long as Russia wasn't any trouble to them (there are many theories), but Russia gave Finland near sovereign status immediately as the Grand Duchy of Finland, and quickly reincorporated it with the pieces of Finland that Russia had taken in the Great Northern War. Finland had relatively few taxes to pay, mainly the army tax, because initially it did not send any soldiers into the Russian Army, and preferred to pay money instead. About the only thing that Russia and Finland disagreed upon, at first, was the location of the capital, which was at the time, Turku. Russia thought that this was too close to Sweden, and in 1814 insisted that the capital be moved to Helsinki, which was closer to Moscow, and where "Swedish" culture did not completely inundate the streets.

**Christiania** - After deposing King Charles (as mentioned last chapter) Sweden was in the market for a new king, one who could deal with the fact that Europe was coming apart at the seams, thanks to France's little problem with wanting to conquer the whole of Europe. The Swedes chose a French revolutionary general, Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte, to be their next king, Karl XIV Johan. He came to the throne as the Norwegians threw their weight behind an independence movement, and France picked up steam, heading into Russia, so not all of the Swedish nobility trusted him, what with him being French himself. He made himself really unpopular by becoming good friends with Tsar Alexander, and giving up Sweden's dreams of reconquering Finland. And yet he was one of the longest reigning Swedish monarchs who brought the throne back into serious power after the massive disaster of his predecessor. It is his swift and brutal repression of the Norwegian independence moment after the Treaty of Moss, which concluded the brief Norwegian-Swedish War, that is credited with keeping Norway in union with Sweden until the reign of King Oskar II. Supposedly, he used secret police and informers to keep tabs on all politicians in Norway, and break up any meetings, and arrest people who were talking about the possibility of starting another war.

**The Free City of Krakow** - As mentioned above, because of the events leading up to the First Partition of Poland, the Hapsburg Empire and Poland were not on the best of terms. However, the Austrian sections of what had been Poland were treated fairly well in comparison to the Russian and Prussian sections (although when one looks at the conditions of the Austrian Empire at the time period that means very little). At one point Austria declared the City of Krakow a free city-state, where Polish culture had a renaissance and bloomed. This nationalism lead to rebellion against the Austrian Empire (part of the 1848 uprisings that forced Austria to create the Austro-Hungarian Empire because of how badly it had been weakened), and thereafter Austria cracked down on Poland, removing the freedom, and restricting the citizens.

**Vienna** - Oh Slesweg. Denmark was not being a good overlord in this time period. Remember the "not-Norway" comic strip? It was doing this to the German State of Holstein, too, and making life horrible for all the Germans in the Danish province known as Slesweg, which was united with Holstein through personal union. Because of this, Denmark was treating both areas as though they were under the Danish crown. It turns out, however, it is not a good idea to abuse and punish the people who work the only real fertile agricultural land in your possession. The rest of the German States, presenting a much more unified front since Napoleon's attempt at making a unified German state, went to Prussia and Austria to complain about the way Denmark was mucking with them. Prussia eagerly agreed to jump to Germany's defense, provided it could keep the territories in question, while Austria joined in, worried that Prussia was going to become more powerful if it got the most fertile parts of Denmark to keep for itself. The first War of Schleswig ended with Denmark managing to take control of both Holsten and Slesweg, but that just precipitated the Second War of Schleswig, where Prussia and Austria kept hammering Denmark until it had to withdraw from both disputed territories. During one of the battles, the Prussians jumped the lines in excitement (like, you know, you do in these sorts of situations), and began to conquer Denmark proper. They took all of the Jutland Peninsula, and the Austrians, rather than see a Prussia in control of the entirety of Denmark, pointed out to the Danes that Prussia had Denmark by the proverbial short hairs, and they should negotiate. The end result: Prussia kept Schleswig, Austria got Holstein, and Denmark was sent limping back home to rethink its foreign policy, and decide that isolation was the best tactic since the last time Denmark had 'won' a war was 1721, and if it kept losing this much land each time it got into trouble, soon all that would be left would be Iceland, because no one in their right mind would want that area.

Please note that the question of Schleswig was not fully settled even then. Prussia entered into the Third War of Schleswig against Austria to gain Holstein for the German Empire, and then after WWI Schleswig was given a choce as to whether it wanted to become Danish land again, or remain in German hands. This caused a split in the province, and now North Slesweg belongs to Denmark, while South Schleswig is part of the German province of Schleswig-Holstein.

**Moscow** - Um, Bloody Sunday in Russia is one of the key events towards sparking the Russian Revolution. It happened January 10th 1905, and we've seen Russia's role in it in Hetalia, already. Do I need to go into further historical note?

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**Chapter 4: That Which Suffers**

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**January 1793 – Grodno, Russia (Previously: Grodno, Lithuania; Modern: Hrodna, Belarus)**

Feliks looked at the tall ceiling arching over his head. Yelling and shouting had died down. He was not even certain if there had been much of that to begin with. No dramatic final battle in front of the chamber [1]. Nothing to indicate that any of his fiery men and women contradicted the state of affairs. Nothing reflecting the will of the humans all over his land. Amazing how quickly a little gold changed minds. People who had once been his humans had made their decision. Already he could feel the lands floating around inside him, cut from the very core of who he had been. Second time. Better make it the last, or this would get a habit, or something.

Behind him, a huge oak door thudded open, and boomed shut. Something peeped nervously at the loud echoes, and Feliks _knew_ the careful shushing that coddled baby birds but had no mercy for anything else. His hand wrapped around the handle of his rapier unconsciously. The hip popped to one side. He should have worn an evening gown. That would have showed them all. Especially the traitor. Oh, certainly Poland was still gorgeous, but an evening gown would have made him fabulous as he fell from grace once again.

"Judas had the dignity to kill himself, Prusy. Like, what's your contribution to the hall of the uh-tterly damned?"

Prussia glided around the shorter man, his cloak flaring around him making the black wings to Poland's burning white ones. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'm going to look you in the eyes as I give you up."

A furious growl rose in Poland's throat. He felt as though his rage would tear right out of his chest, and attack—the utter callousness! "You. Bitch."

"Oh, I don't think so," Prussia spun on shiny black cavalry boots, whipping off his hat, and placing it on a table.

He smiled fondly at the coos from the little birdie puff ball. That was better than looking Poland precisely in the eye, after all. Of course, when it came right now to it, he would, because that was his promise, and he could keep that. "In fact, I think you're about to eat those words."

Whirling once more, Prussia collapsed into a delicate chair in the French fashion that Feliks had both laughed at and enjoyed. Sticking out his legs, Prussia gazed obscenely at the fallen nation, resplendent in black and gold today, aquamarine dramatically forming flowers and dragons among the sparkling yellow foliage worked into his jacket. The expression surmounting his radiance had frozen in dislike.

Prussia's face twitched into a long leer. "Going to go out in a blaze of glory, Polen?"

The hand on the rapier tensed once more. "I'm not going to go out. Ever, Prusy," Poland returned his eyes to the Gothic vaults of the ceiling. "You have, like, every kind of nerve, don't you? You force me to beg—I _begged_ you, which, I don't know, should go down in history as, like, the absolute pit of absolute pits—I begged you. And you said you'd protect me. You'd support my reforms. I never liked you, Prusy, but hah, I thought you were _loyal_."

"My people come first, Polen, they always have," the lanky man shrugged, one hand going through silver hair with fingers that could handle a sword or complex arpeggios on a flute.

Poland did not bother to hide his disgust. "This was totally _not_ about your people, Prusy. Be fucking honest with yourself. You're, like, a greedy pig, and Ivan has the best trough."

That stung. Prussia mantled, springing out of his chair to push aggressively into the shorter man's space. "Hey, I lost some of my land, and more of my boys than I want to think about. 'Scuse me, for wanting _some_ compensation. Francis just beat my ass, and he's fucking looming over Lutz, and you're not doing anything _important_. Fuck your reforms, Polen. Fuck them. I don't care. You're my possession in everything but name! Get it? I say that Ivan and his precious Tsarina can have their way with you, you smile, and say: 'Like, yes. How would you totes like it?'" batting Feliks-imitation eyelashes at Poland, Prussia forced his voice to flute in a feminine register before dropping into a harsh growl. "I don't think you get who you're talking to, Polen."

"Gilbert Beilschmidt," Poland leaned in, bridging the few inches between them with a finger. "Liar. Cheat. Thief. Total pain in the ass. And the man who I put my trust in."

The red eyes sparkled heartlessly. "Well, you shouldn't have done that, now should you? Because I'm also Königreich Preußen, and I will do whatever the Hell I want!"

"We were never this bad to you," Feliks used the whisper like a dagger, letting the sharp words slide into the brain.

Prussia, however, drew back, sneering. "That's because you were weak," the cocky grin returned, ten times more vicious. "I hear Toris can't get enough of Ivan. All he's missing is you, isn't that right, Len-ki-ja?"

Poland's entire body should have been frozen in time so that some new Michelangelo could sculpt the perfect distillation of powerless raging murder. In a crescent of silver the rapier lanced from the waist to stab right into Prussia's heart. But this was the kingdom's game. This was what he was _good_ at. If Francis had come at him like this, the revolution would be over.

He whirled around the blade grasping the outstretched wrist, and pulling, pulling until there was nothing left to do, but follow through, and wrap the arm up and behind. Poland kept tight hold of his silly court sword, stamping down harshly with loose booted feet. Prussia danced, expertly moving his toes out of the way of the vicious heels. Push. Poland crashed to the marble floor, Prussia falling with him, and pinning him, the weight of the man's body crushing the hand that held the rapier.

"It's over, Polen," the pale empire crackled in his ear.

Feliks tasted a little blood from where he had bitten his tongue in the fall. "I gave you so much for your protection."

Prussia grabbed the free wrist, and wrenched it around to meet the other. "Not enough."

"What would have been enough?" Poland asked the spindly chair leg cynically. "Carthage? Jerusalem? Grunwald?"

Prussia looked down at Królowa Feliks, subdued, broken, and about to be carved into something even less for the hideous Russia. How did he keep getting into these situations? Well, he would never be on the receiving end. He was the awesome Prussian Empire. Even if Francis had slapped him around a battle field. Even if everything that had made his Empire magnificent had become sour and angry in the end. [2]

His lips were cruel, as Gilbert leaned over Feliks' ear. "Can you give me Fritz again?"

Feliks barked out a laugh. "A dead human?"

"A _great_ one," Prussia croaked, holding ravens in his throat. Silence echoed in the chamber. Then: "You can't, Feliks. No one can. And even if you could, we don't know how great they are until their time is spent and done. Of course I was going to betray you. Neither of us knew how it was going to happen, that was all."

The door opened behind them, and Gilbert quickly turned his head. "Hoi! Lutz, what the Hell did I say?"

Serious blue eyes accused him of being stupid. "I heard the crash. I thought I should check. If there had been a fight—," the young man trailed off, as Prussia's glare intensified. He was the great Prussian Empire. He did not need his little brother's help.

"I _said_ don't come in here. Poland and I have some things to discuss that are none of your business."

Feliks chuckled under Prussia's knees. His voice tinkled, brightly savage. "Oh, a, like, discussion is what we're calling this, now, Prusy?"

Prussia punched the side of his captive's head, his red eyes gleaming unpleasantly. "RAUS, Westen!" Long fingers twisted in Poland's hair as the door closed quietly. "_Yessss_. This is a discussion, is it not? You and me discussing how I've betrayed you. We could also discuss, for example, how you should probably divest yourself of your nice coat and shirt. And the pants. I hear tell that Ivan doesn't like complicated things, and it'd be a pity seeing this lovely get-up ripped."

"It is absolutely fan_tas_tic, isn't it, Prusy?" Feliks snarled prettily. "I'm just surprised you're not taking first honors this time around. A boy might think you're getting whipped by Russia."

Just for that, Prussia slammed Feliks' head into the floor, before rising, wary of the sword. For a malicious second, he let his left hand linger possessively on Poland's hip. Fully satisfied that he had made his point, Prussia waltzed back to his chosen chair. "What can I say? Ivan was more keen on this, and wanted to rush in. Of course I'll let him."

Felik, picking himself up, set his jaw as he listened to Prussia's grating words. Clearly had suspicion come over him in a storm cloud. "That's unlike you, Prusy."

"Really?" the empire purred, wanting Poland to ask, wanting to dangle the proper doings of an empire before him. "How so?"

Swallowing, Poland drew up a second chair facing Prussia. "You're a bastard, Prussia. You tell me what I'm totally not seeing."

Prussia steepled his long fingers together. "What exactly is Ivan getting, one has to ask? As far as I see, he'll be milking you for Mińsk, and yes, there is a lot of nice land there, but," the fingers reached out, so Prussia could tickle Poland's chin, his touch bringing ink to the surface, and causing the country to tense in violated fury. Poland caught the finger in a grip that threatened to break it, but Pussia's pleased voice crawled over his ears, "I know the precious little secrets of Gdańsk, and how you _squirm_ over Poznań. Who cares about first and second when you can have the _best_? Ow! Watch it, or I'll have to do something violent."

"Won't you need baby brother to come in and help?" Feliks hissed viciously, pushing the finger back in its socket forcing it perpendicular with the palm.

Prussia's free hand blurred, and the blond head snapped to one side. Prussia's mouth had straightened into a sword's edge. "Lutz has no part in this, Feliks."

"Not going to let him share in the victory?" Feliks asked nastily. "I thought brothers shared everything."

"Not this," Prussia growled, fighting back embarrassment that made him want not to look at the fellow nation and blush at the thought of little Lutz knowing or wanting to participate in this kind of thing. Ludwig was honorable. That much he could be proud of.

"Not—," Feliks blinked for a moment. "He doesn't know how to partition?" The surprise made Poland drop Prussia's finger.

Gilbert looked away, heat rising through his frame. "Not the way we're doing it, no! He's my little brother. I'm sure he picked up the mechanics somewhere. 'Nyway," Gilbert couldn't stop his mouth, despite the frantic signals from his brain telling him that he needed to shut up. Shut up now. "I think he _was_ partitioned before I picked him up, or at least, he'd been partially partitioned, or prepared for a really violent partitioning, or, I'm not sure. Since he can't _remember_ any of it, what if something set him off, or something?"

Poland sneered at the quavering end of the sentence, hanging fragile between them. "You think I'm, like, weak? Prusy, you deserve to be staked out in the snow."

"I don't recall asking you, Królowa!" Prussia yelled uncomfortably.

Waving an elegant hand, Feliks leaned forward, suddenly the power in the room. "It's a reality of our existence, Prusy. Nations fall. They rebel. They collapse. They are partitioned."

Prussia sneezed, which rather took the wind from his very angry sails, but he continued glaring at Poland. "Not Lutz."

"That's totally what I said about Toris," Feliks' retort was a slap in the face. His subsequent bell-like laugh twisted in Prussia's gut. "You're, like, telling me the good little boy is out there, not in com-pleeeete naivete of what big brother Prusy is planning with bad Mr. Rosja? For real? I should, like, in my capacity as the eldest involved, and completely most mature, like, _enlighten_ him."

He rose from his seat.

The next seconds rushed past for Prussia, who leaped from the chair, taking distance eating strides that pushed Feliks against the wall, a tapestry keeping the elegant coat from rough plasterwork. His hands, white in the shadows of lamps and candles, tore the elegant golden sash from Feliks' waist, and had pulled up the loose turquoise patterned linen shirt, before sinking claw-like into the flesh under the rib cage. Lit by candlelight, malevolence resided in his face, reveling in the inky lines and letters that blossomed all over Poland's flawless skin, crawling under the collar of the shirt, and appearing on the hands, before winding under the sleeves of the jacket.

Cold, powerful, Prussia's mouth curved into a ravening hook. "Do that, Polska, and I'll go first, and be so _good_ at what I'm doing that you'll beg to give me _Warsawa_ in the end [3]," a knee clad in black breeches slipped to part Poland's legs, thigh grinding against the flaccid penis through layers of cloth.

Feliks grit his teeth. "You're not helping him, Prusy."

Prussia pushed against his enemy meaningfully. "I'm doing as I see best."

"Then you can barely see at all!" Feliks yelled.

Red eyes hovering, one thumb slipped over scaring skin, and stroked the beginning of a hip bone. "I see enough," Prussia's words floated on the air, beating blackly. "I see Gdańsk. I see Poznań. I see Warsawa_,_" he crooned. "You were right. It's a gorgeous place. Think about what it will be like when I make it mine. Think about it Polska. How I'll rip the noble Polishness from its foundations. How it will be _my_ language on the street. In the schools. Tak. How my fashions, and my aesthetics will burn through your own. How my people will replace your people," he hurled Felik's body from him.

Poland stumbled, caught by the unexpected moment, black ink still running over him, denoting the map of his skin. But already, some of the words flashed across Prussia's pale white fingers, which the militant nation held high, as though he never wanted to touch Poland ever again.

"Don't mess with Lutz," Prussia told him. "I'll come down on you like the wrath of God."

Catching his balance, Poland wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand. "Lame. I've felt that before, Prusy. It's not that terrifying."

"You had your girlfriend to take the beating for you," Prussia saluted Feliks, two fingers touching his gray hair for a moment. "Get undressed. I'm going to find Russia."

His hand was on the iron latch when Feliks, still in the realm of candlelight, spoke. "Why'd you bother coming, Gilbert? It's not as though we want to spend my last moments of dignity in each other's presence."

Gilbert chuckled. It bounced in the small chamber, modulating and changing in pitch. "I'm about to feed you to the Russian Empire. I did promise I'd look you in the eyes. This is what Judas does, isn't it, Królowa?"

* * *

**September, 1811 – Turku, Grand Duchy of Finland (Turku, Finland)**

It was not quite a coffee shop. It was, certainly, a place to sit and relax, and as the weather turned a little nippy it was a place where you could get warm drinks. Most of these were of the alcoholic variety, and Finland had chosen a seat close to the window, because further in the air was a smokey combination of bad lighting and food smells. Also, the chill outside seeped in through the glass, and while it was not strong or even really noticeable to the two nations using the shop, it meant that Ivan was just slightly uncomfortable, but did not know it. This was a state of affairs of which Tino approved.

Still, he felt a little guilty. After the war Ivan had clearly tried. "Did you come here to see how we're getting along with our senate?" Tino asked politely, as Ivan eyed the mug of piimä [4] Tino had suggested with suspicion.

"Is there anything stronger to drink?" Ivan asked, took another sniff, and Tino could just see him regretting his choice of words.

The Grand Duchy grinned. "Of course. Beer or viina [5]?"

Ivan looked affronted that this was even a question. "Vodka. So, how are things coming along? You are liking them, да?"

Cautiously, Tino nodded. "I've never felt so strong. And thank you for granting me the old provinces. Incorporation has been a little tricky, of course, but it's wonderful being _me_ finally."

Ivan became a study in delight. "I had hoped so, Kitten. You are such a stubborn land, sometimes. I had to do something that would let you—," breaking off in mid-sentence, the large man cocked his head and then swiveled, looking at some Imperial Academy students [6]. Ivan frowned slightly. It was not the frown of a nation on the brink of bringing down the law, but one slightly confused by events, and looking for an explanation. "Kitten, are those humans speaking Swedish?"

Tino nodded, sighing. "I really wish that they wouldn't do that," Ivan nodded amicably. "Why they just can't speak Finnish like the rest of us, I won't understand. Still, Ålanders, what can you do?" Finland couldn't help smiling fondly [7].

Ivan's face had fallen once more. "Russian would also be acceptable, да? Turku could use more Russian."

Tino's cheeks gained a degree of tightness. "I think we're fine at present. Of course, if more Finns decide to start speaking it, I won't object. That's the wonder of autonomy, isn't it?"

"I could bring some programs that teach—,"

"We're _fine_," Tino emphasized. "Really, Ivan, this has been so much better than last time. Let's keep it that way."

Russian's eyebrows drew together over the bridge of his impressive nose. "Are you suggesting that you would show your claws, again, Kitten? I do not like your claws."

Tino nodded in agreement. "Of course, Ivan. Let me get you your drink," he rose from the stained table, and walked to the back.

On his way, he passed the humans laughing about something that one of them had done to one of their teachers. It seemed a far cry from the war on the Ottoman Empire Russia focused on, just as it was a far cry from the war with Napoleon that was quietly sputtering out across Europe. Finland had not seen much of France, but in a way he was glad that he was out of it. He was feeling stronger than he ever had. It was as though he was becoming whole, which was ridiculous, but that was how it felt.

Was this how Ruosti felt all the time? Tanska? Norja [8]? Tino couldn't help the small scowl that crossed his features, as he grabbed for the proper bottle. He had only felt something approaching this when he served in Ruosti's armies. Back in the days of the Empire. Maybe, too, when he was fighting Russia, but there had been so much to do. New hiding places for the humans to find, slaughters to watch so that at least someone who felt for the dead was witness to it, weapons to steal, fights to win. But now he could actually feel it. He had time to sit back and feel the identity of _Suomi_ which had always been there in his heart now spreading through his bones and muscles, and filling him entirely. Why was it that _Ven__ä__j__ä_ the only one who allowed him this kind of, of, self? Was that the word?

Ruotsi had always been there, and helped him, protected Suomi at the cost of Tino's dignity on occasion, but also at the cost of Su-san's dignity at other times. Why then—the bottle shook, and Tino quickly pulled it away, realizing that he had been about to fill the Venäjä-sized glass to overflowing. That would have been embarrassing. Glancing surreptitiously at the bottle, he hid it behind the counter, promising himself that he would have the rest of it, once Ivan left. Tino felt the need to indulge just a bit after talking with his new overlord about his status as Suomen suuriruhtinaskunta [9].

Goodness it felt _good_ to think of himself like that. Not a part of Sweden, but something separate. Get rid of the Russian part and—he probably shouldn't think these things while Ivan was in the same room. Tino had always been terrible at hiding his thoughts, and Ivan would be offended, and chances were that would end in a fight, which would be less than wonderful for the laughing students, and the lady responsible for making soup in the back, and the baker around the corner, who was having a hard enough time getting his ingredients as it was, and the city, which was a lovely for a city filled with memories and thoughts, and new burgeoning ideas of independence and identity, and what it meant to live and breathe without taxation. That last part made Tino giggle quietly to himself as he returned to the table [10].

"You are happy as Великое княжество Финляндское [11]," Ivan stated, taking the drink with a nod of thanks. "I want you to be happy. You know this, да? Everyone who is a part of me should be happy."

Tino too a deep breath. "I was wondering, um, Eduard says he is in a lot of pain because of what you're doing to his peasants."

Ivan clapped Tino's shoulder with one huge hand. "Do not worry, Kitten. I am giving you autonomy, да? Your people do not need the kind of help that I must administer to Eduard's people. Tell me, is this not a better rule than what you experienced with Швеция [12]?" Ivan looked at Tino expectantly, making Tino's stomach churn.

He smiled slightly, thinking of the anger, and not of nights by the fire, or jokes swapped, or watching Berwald solemnly sew clothing together. Yes. That was it. Sweden was the horrible empty feeling of not having all limbs attached, but not knowing that they were missing. Berwald was laughter, shyness, uncontrollably human. That was how to honestly answer the question.

"Yes, Ivan. It is."

At this, Ivan beamed. His face filled with joy, shining above the scarf. "You really do love me, Kitten, don't you? When you show your claws—Well, from now on you will only show them at my enemies. They will not realize what they have come across until it is too late. And together, we will butcher them, да, Kitten? You will have fun. You have always had such fun."

Tino, thinking about his self-promised viina, nodded.

* * *

**February 1814 – Solna, Sweden**

Sunlight lanced through the curtain. Head exploding in showers of sparks, Sweden rolled over, and tried to get his entire body under his pillow. That was when he realized that there was no pillow, and his cheek was stuck to the wooden floor by a puddle of drool. It smelled.

Normally, the first thing he would have done involved finding the harshest lye, and thorough scrubbing. But as he tried to move, pain gripped his whole body in red flares from his joints. Okay then. This was going to involve careful steps. Step one. He would open his eyes.

Everything was blurred and too bright. Closing his eyes again, he put one large hand over his face, probing carefully. Okay. No glasses. That would explain the blurry, and the light sensitivity—his other questing hand discovered cool pewter, a tankard, perhaps—that was probably a hangover. Small steps. Sit up, without opening the eyes, as this has proved painful. You can do it.

He managed to get through that step, and sat there, in the dark with slumped shoulders. What had happened? Norge had, had, he had no idea what Norge had done. It merely hurt. Magic using cheater.

Sweden smiled a little at that. The first time they had discovered that Norge did not take well to Danmark on his vessels an ogre had sent Tani flying into icy water, leaving the young tribe spluttering, and claiming that Sami had cheated, even as he dipped back below the surface of the ocean, not good at treading water while holding firmly onto a newly forged axe.

Opening his eyes, trying to ignore the way his eyelids itched, and burned, Sweden looked around. The room looked just trashed. There were burn marks all over everything. It did not really matter, he thought, seeing the victims of the destruction. His precious maps. His Empire. Burned to charred ash. Norge really knew how to hit where it hurt. It was probably a good thing that the northern neighbor (now member of _his_ house) had never seen the maps with invasion plans for Norway. That would have made last night a vastly different conversation. Probably. What had he said?

Sweden swept a throbbing gaze over the devastation. Next step: clean up. There was something soothing about pulling the furniture out of the way. He needed this. Time to tidy. Time to get all this mess sorted out, and then hopefully as his hands were busy he could get everything else straightened out. Try as he might, the idea of attacking Danmark again had little appeal. It had spent his anger, but as always, everything else returned, and he was tired right now.

Attacking Russia held a lot more appeal, but everything that he was that said wars were the will of his humans, and not the other way around. He wanted to widen that smile on the edge of a sword. _So, I have been very generous, __да? __I take your fist plaything, and give you a new one. Perhaps he is not as sweet as the one that I took, but I'm sure he has his charms._

Sweden found his face growing unusually cold, and the former flag pole he was pulling clear from the wreckage for the small pile of reusable materials creaked dangerously under his grip. _Norway looked at him. "I am a sovereign kingdom, you know."_

And now he was the property of Sweden. Sweden had been through a brutal series of wars. Norway was compensation. Although, what was he going to do with that compensation? _He is not as boyish as the last, I suppose. Will that be a problem for you? Bright purple eyes shone innocently at him, filthy thoughts lurking in their depths_.

He would do as he always had. Norway was not strong enough to stand on its own. Sweden knew that. Even if Norge himself was determined to a path of destruction, he would step in. The people demanded a proper kind of care and obedience. Norge remained entrenched in his mountains and forests, not thinking of any world beyond that. He did not care for his people. He needed Sweden. Perhaps he had not realized it yet, but he needed Sweden.

_A door opened. Russia stepped through it. His humans had mediated this. Well, of course, it would be Russia this time, Sweden thought sourly. If France is not available to put his sticky fingers everywhere, Russia will do it. He is an Empire now. Interfering in the business of others' is his prerogative._

_Norge, tied with rope, followed, his face akin to his mountains. Stiff. Lacking human expression, but in the language of rocks a person could look at him, and stand back because the precipice was harsh._

Grunting slightly, Sweden forced a bookcase upright. Irreplaceable volumes and pages were scattered underneath ranging from lightly charred to ash. He started to sort with a distracted determination. Good. Fix. Reuse the paper. Impossible. Impossible. Impossible. Fix. Fix. Impossible. Fix. Impossible. Impossible. Fix? He regarded the heat eaten last half of a volume of poetry. When had he ever had this? Maybe it was something Tino had gotten? Only he did not see "My Hellish Little Bloodbath of Romance," written on the inside cover.

Just the thought that—Damnit. Berwald found himself scrubbing at throbbing itching eyes. Even if it had been Tino's, long poems about the beauty of dew on a spider's web did not seem like it would be something that Tino would pick up. Tino liked the confessional, the biography, and the character sketch. If he was going to read, he wanted to read about people.

Berwald's head hurt. He placed the half burned book in the pile for reuse. Carefully, he gathered the pages on the floor. He moved his piles to outside the room, making certain that they did not stray too far from the door, in case some unwary boy or girl tripped over them.

He was not sure how far this place was impinging on the human world. He liked the Military Academy. He liked the idea of young men coming together, learning things, and coming out of it a little wiser, and a little readier for the outside world. Ready to take on that world as brothers in war time, and ready to lead that world as brothers in piece. Where the girls fit into it, Berwald was a little more hazy. The doings of humans, and their ways of classifying things remained a mystery. If girls needed to be taught sewing rather than sword work, that was what was needed, and Berwald would not stop them. He had never been a young girl, after all. What did he know?

_What, don't you want him? After all the trouble we went to, thinking of a suitable replacement. It is not nice, да. It mocks our efforts._

_Norge's eyes were murderous, for Norge, at least. Their blue spoke of avalanches._

His face felt stiff. Checking with a few tentative fingers revealed a strong angry crease where his eyebrows were threatening to become one. The headache was really pounding now. He would have thrown up, but for some reason Sweden could not find anything to throw up, and relieve the nausea. Well, that was the consequence of drinking with only rum to absorb the beer.

Finding a broom he began to sweep the rest of the mess up. The table would need a lot of planing and sanding before it was usable again, and even then it would probably have to become an intricate piece. Sweden did not like the idea of a delicate, spindly thing, taken up with so much carving that it had lost its functionality. However, salvaging that table, and planning what to do with it would help pass his evenings and maybe get the poison that had been running through his system to ooze out a little.

The broom stopped at the threshold of the door. Sweden looked at that border for a long while. By rights, it should not exist. By war it should not exist.

_Watch that one, the disgusting thing chirped. It bit me when I tried to bind it the first time. But I know you, да, and you like your boys to be docile and sweet in your power, so I had to tie him up after he and дания parted ways. The violet eyes leered, and Sweden could see those hands patting Tino's hair as they had patted his hair, before shoving in not so long ago._

_Next to the Russian, England paled. Perhaps it had been because the memory had shone so clearly on Sweden's face. No. He paled, looking at Sweden, not even glancing at Russia. The stupid, fluff headed boy believed the words of the monster. Believed that the lion was a deranged pervert._

_Norge looked away. Cold. Hungry. Unhappy. _

Norge had left. Norge, who knew how the game was played, who understood that he was the bounty of war, and belonged to Sweden, had left. He had left, believing that what Sweden wanted was a replacement for something that could honestly never be replaced, and believing that Sweden's only connection with Tino had been, had been—

_It wasn't like that! I wasn't like that! Tino wouldn't have been safe like that. He would have told me. He would have told me if I was growing sick._

He abandoned the broom to stand in the clean circle of devastation that had been his private room. As expected, one thing that had been destroyed last night had already returned to its proper shape with no effort from Sweden. The sword gleamed in a way that hurt his eyes from the light streaking in through the window. He picked the weapon up. He had worn this at his side for the entirety of his Empire. It had been made for him, and presented to him only a few days before Lützen [13].

_This is mine?_

_A golden roaring teeth filled smile. Of course it is. You are my land. An empire's lion needs his fangs._

Before the sword it had been a staff. Something that could fend off Denmark's attacks. Something that protected himself. Something that protected Tino. Protected his people. And then came the sword. His sword that carved the mighty Swedish Empire from nothing but the will to fight.

Stormaktstiden [14]. His era.

One that lasted fewer than a hundred years, and most of them were fighting. There was more fighting yet to come. He would rise and reign once more, but not with his fangs. This sword's final act had nearly been to cut the head from the shoulders of the newest member of his house. That was not to be its legacy. He loved the blade, he loved its maker, and he loved the man who had given it to him, but with this in his hands, channeling his rage, he forgot what it meant to be Berwald. He let the lion and the fang take control.

"It's 'ver," he told the sword quietly, walking to the wall where the glorious flags had hung.

The brackets were still there. There was still Norge's childish rebellion to stop. There was still Tino to rescue. There probably would always be Danmark to fight. Firmly, he placed the sword on the wall, and picked up the bare pole of a former flag staff.

* * *

**July 1821 – Christiania, Norway (Oslo, Norway)**

In the dim light of early morning, Norway flew out of a window, his exit heralded by the crash of glass and splintering wood. The close wall of the nearest house took him in the back, almost before he had the time to tuck and roll onto the cobbles below. Sweden stood firmly in the doorway, tall and forbidding. Norway felt the skin of his eyelids twitch, and jaw clenched, he pulled himself into a crouch, one hand on the ground, the familiar rush drawing him onward.

Green flashed overhead, punching towards Sweden. Predictably, his staff swept around in a smooth block, just as Norway cut the feeling of earth and Norway from the troll, who, according to old laws, turned to stone. With a vicious crack, Sweden's weapon rebounded, and Norway was already on the move, running in a loose crescent. He came under the vibrating defense on the left side, fists whirling into an uppercut which never reached the rocky chin, as the butt end of the staff slammed into his gut. Norway slipped on the wet moss clinging to the stones of the shady street, and came down hard. Sweden's boot slammed into his chest. The staff hovered in front of his nose.

"G've up?" with the police whistles blowing in the background, the giant almost sounded merry.

Norway fought to keep his face blank. "What's to give up? We were just talking."

"Treaty _y_' acknowl'dged says y'r Svensk mark [15]," Sweden's eyes were lazily hooded behind the glass. He had everything well in hand, didn't he? "Act l'ke it. N'more s'cret m'tings."

Norway tilted his head. A woman who had no reason to be toting fish up on the high hills of the city was walking away from the end of the street, basket on her hip. "You'll stoop to any level, won't you?"

"M'king will," Sweden continued watching Norway, and the shorter nation received the strong impression that Sweden was perfectly happy to stand in a Norwegian street with a troll statute, and wait until Norway gave up.

He had a long wait ahead of him. Norway's hand scythed out, touching the rough gray limb by his side, and it burst into warm green pulsing life, that lunged forward, punching Sweden off his conquered land once more.

Norway lunged to his feet, looking for a weapon that would actually _hurt_ Sweden. His humans would talk, if they wanted to. Their words would fill the streets, declaring the breaking day. Informers or no. Prisons or no. Sweden's precious French king, or no.

Had he been anyone else, Norway's lips would have curled into a smile at that thought. As it was he ran toward Sweden, defending himself against the obliging Bagatell [16], who did not seem to mind pitting his strength against a nation with a staff swinging in economic circles. Keeping the Norwegian spirit at arms' length. Well that would soon change.

Norway sprinted toward the pair dancing further up the narrow and twisting street. His hands caught the butt of the staff as Sweden, executing an elegant turn shoved his weapon between elbow and side. The impact jarred the its way through the lithe body, but he tossed the stick aside, and dropped to the cobbles, kicking at Sweden's boots.

This was an old trick, and it only slowed the old Nordic down enough for the troll to get another solid punch to Sweden's torso. But that was not Norway's object. "Speaking of giving up," he flowed upright, slipping within the circle of Sweden's shattered guard, driving an elbow into his foe's spine, as he stood on tiptoe to whisper in the nation's ear. "How's Finland doing?"

The mighty fist crashed into the side of his face. Norway stumbled into the side of the nearest cheery blue building. But the close quarters were working for him, oddly enough. Cities irritated him, normally, but the twisting street was hampering Sweden's movements, breaking his control over his weapon.

"Th'ght y' _knew_ th't t'pic's off l'mits," Sweden was no longer moving.

A quick glance to the side showed Norway that his magic connection had vanished again. He was going to need to apologize to Bagatell profusely. Once, in the name of battle was fine, but this was unacceptably—since when did he care this much?

Norway stood proudly in his city, pushing aside the minute concerns. "How many topics are off limits, Sweden? My sovereignty—,"

The tall man snorted. "W'll y' jus' _give up_? 'S over. Y' did well. Ch'se m' king. I g've y'—,"

"I need international recognition, Sweden," Norway found himself growling. He was not going to show how much this hurt. "The last treaty I attended, England thought that I was _you_. Can you name any other nation who has to endure that kind of humiliation [17]?"

The harsh blue of Sweden's eyes spoke the truth. That was his intent. He wanted Norway's land to become Swedish. If you couldn't defeat people by force, perhaps trickery would work. But Norway was a better trickster. Or, he knew better ones, anyway.

"You give up," Norway told him. "You can't ignore me."

A gold eyebrow rose. "Y' th'nk not?"

Norway drew on the earth. "Not here. Not with your French king. Not without your precious Finland. I want my freedom Sweden."

For a second, Sweden's eyes glanced eastward. "We 'll w'nt th' 'mpossible, Norge."

It wasn't impossible, Norway brought his palms up, returning the earth's power to Bagatell. He was Kongeriket Norge, and even if he was not fully sovereign right at the moment, he would continue fighting. It must be hard to be Sweden, he thought cynically. The man would never see his favorite again, and his plans for rebuilding his empire were dependent on a nation who hated him. Sweden had a long time to wait indeed.

* * *

**March 1840 – The Free City of Krakow, Austria (Krakow, Poland)**

Feliks could not help but grin viciously when he saw Rodderich's wince. He kept the grin confined to his tea cup, however, and soon enough Roderich sat down, signaling for a waiter. As the man ordered, Feliks wondered what they would talk about this time. Their meetings left the blond man with a vile taste in his mouth, and nausea in his gut. Not because Roderich's rule was particularly deplorable, indeed in comparison to Russia, Feliks would have to say that Austria was a treat. That was not hard to do, of course, but even given how violently Austria reacted toward forms of national expression, he was easier to live under than both of Feliks' other overlords.

No, the roiling feeling swirling in his intestines had far more to do with Roderich's cruelty.

"Do you have to be so, um, gaudy?" Roderich toyed with his napkin.

Poland raised expressive eyebrows. The tea did not even splash as he flipped a hand fashionably to show off the richly embroidered clean linen gathered at his cuffs. "I wanted to look, like, spectacular for you, Roderich."

The tips of his ears going pink, the Empire muttered something about a walking dress. Plain would have been fine, if Poland _had_ to wear women's clothing.

Poland gazed at him archly, eyebrows insinuating far more than Austria would ever find proper, but if Roderich was in a mood to squirm today, Poland would let him squirm. Would prod him into squirming. Feliks would make this distasteful state of affairs as painful as he could. "Do you object to it when Elizavetta wears her flowers all on her dress?"

At this, Roderich looked away. "So, you heard. I-I had nothing to do with that, you realize? It was her own nobility [18]."

Ah, the guilt explained. Austria had been letting his problems fester again, rather than dealing with them. Feliks would not complain too loudly. He had a whole city of what _still_ was _Polska_ mostly under his own control because Roderich hated to deal with things that involved effort. No wonder Metternich held his lead so tightly. Roderich allowed it. Felicks remained surprised that Prussia had not eaten Roderich's empire whole by now. Admittedly, Ludwig's growing power had rather shorted the last visit Prussia made to Warsaw, so Prusy probably had his own worries.

"Is that what helps you sleep at night, Roderich?" Feliks purred.

Austria's coffee arrived with its biscuit, and the composer busied himself with rearranging things on the saucer. "Have you been able to go to Paris recently? I heard Chopin [19] the last time Francis invited me over."

Poland's jewel eyes hardened in irritation. "No. I was with _Ivan_ before coming here. How is he?"

A sleeve, still in the old style and hiding ruffles, flew into the air, wildly gesticulating. "Divine! The man—my God, I will never be able to grasp every nuance! He puts his soul into his music. We all do, of course, but it's so complex. It's like-like-like _fire_."

Trying to lean in without appearing too excited, or _thirsty_ for the news, Feliks nearly sloshed his tea all over the richly patterned skirt. "He's that fantastic?"

Roderich nodded seriously. "Francis was crying after the ètude. _I_ want his hands."

"Those are useless to you without his spirit," Poland crowed excitedly. "And that is mine. From every atom, that is mine!"

Austria scowled slightly, and pushed the golden brown baked good nearer his cup. Feliks did not feel sorry in the slightest. Fryderyk screamed to the world whose subject he was. He practically _was_ Poland. The fiber and soil and spirit that made Feliks the embodiment of a non-existent land, and hundreds of people holding onto their traditions and language with grim teeth. What he should be. Francis, the traitor, had taken his composer in, but the man never stopped being _Polish_ by all that was holy.

Austria cleared his throat, gloved fingers absently toying with the ends of dark brown hair curling close to his collar "You're technically not even a country any more, Feliks."

Poland sneered. He could not help it. The sneer distorted his face. It shouted. It raged. It told Austria everything. Everything that he, Poland wanted to scream at the _failed_ empire. But, all he could manage was a low venomous: "Like, whose fault is th_at_?"

"You forced my hand!" Austria jumped up, his metal worked chair screeching against the cobbles of the outdoors cafe. So that was what this meeting was going to be.

Poland jumped up too, his skirts flowing in glorious, rebellious color all around him, his eyes flashing over a red scowl of fury at injustice. At Austria. "You're saying _I_ asked you to partition your old, best friend? Shut up. Last time I checked, I wasn't white haired or violet eyed!"

Roderich stepped back a pace. Legs wearing the sinful silk stockings of Western Europe advanced around the table. "You _made_ me do it! You and your reforms! My peasants were going to _kill_ my nobility, seeing what you were allowing and I wasn't!"

"Then you should have let them DIE!" Feliks shrieked. "I never _made_ you do anything! It was your own cowardice! You couldn't deal with your peasants, like, you should have just let them—,"

Roderich trembled, frozen in time by the suggestion. Feliks could have left him in the middle of a blizzard and found more color in his face when he came back to defrost Austria.

Finally, dredging up a whisper, because Feliks was almost upon him, Austria managed: "They're my nobility, Feliks."

As if _that_ was explanation enough. Pul-lease. Poland tilted his head high, proudly bearing his throat, as he grabbed Austria's unresisting hand. "Hear that, Roderich?"

The rumble of cart wheels, and the clop of horses hooves. Girls giggling down the promenade. Polish and German blending into uneasy French as men did their business. The sounds of patrons from within the cafe, all mumbling about the two nations. One soberly noble, and the other a glaringly brilliant bright peacock of a romantic.

Austria's purple eyes clouded with confusion, as Poland pressed up against him, trying to acquaint himself with the man's horribly unfamiliar-yet-too-familiar body. Roderich was cruel. "It's music. Shall we dance?"

Austria stepped away. His hand remain connected for a moment. Fingers wrapped desperately around one another. Mutely, they asked, using the unhappy line of his mouth, the sad crease in his eyebrows, for some understanding. Some pity. He sighed, and then broke with Feliks, skin parting with a sigh.

That was so _Roderich_. It made Poland's stomach sick, and twist in agony. Here he was, elegant, lovely, smart, even kind on occasion—Just look at Feliks' bright wonderful city that he might be able to love even more than Warsawa, if that was possible. Roderich just gave it to him. In return for the partitions, and the loss, and the promise that there would be no more Poland, and that he was going to be dissolved, and just gone.

"You're a cruel bitch, Roddy."

Austria started in anger. For a moment aggression showed in the tense arch of his back, the slight bend in his knees, as though he was about to spring. The conductor's baton at his side could be sharp, if he wished it to be. This was the Austria that survived Prussian aggression, possibly. This was not where he held his deplorable viciousness, though.

With effort, the grand nation straightened his frock coat. "I—I am _good_ to you, Polen."

_You're a petty autocrat who mails me reams and reams of laws and orders every month, whether I'm in Russia's house, or screaming at Prussia._ Poland slammed his left hip toward Roderich like a weapon, his hand resting delicately on it. A defiant eyebrow rose, daring Austria to bring forward proof.

"I—I—I tried to keep him from getting Warsaw, you know! I let your people speak like, well, the way that they do."

That made Poland want to slap him. Hard. "Polish, you mean? Mają _prawo_ języku polskim [20]?"

Roderich's lips went tight, his mouth compacting around hard teeth. "Yes. That."

Poland leaned in, until they were nose to nose. "That's, like, _not_ the right answer. You've failed the test. Like, bye, now. Stay after for the answers, and receive some fucking brownie points, like, yeah?"

The affront did not send Austria storming away. To his credit, when the man had his back to the wall, he could fight. Hard, when he wanted. Poland knew this from furious, humiliating experience. But he wanted Austria's back to the wall. He wanted the angry, furious Austria, not the soft, guilty, scared man who made you want to protect him from his own lack of courage.

Austria pushed back, and they were chest to chest now, as personal as you could get with clothes on.

Poland would not give him an inch, though. "Like, answer one: point out all the things we have in common. Love of the gorgeous, flaming _Polish_ Chopin. Our to-tal addiction to the finer things in life. The, like, uncool lack of money that we have for those things, if you want to sniffle and whine. Our totes intense hatred of Prussia. Substitute that for, like, hatred of Russia. Though that's more of a _fear_ in your case, I suppose."

Roderich stepped to the side. Poland mirrored, not daring to stumble. Roddy was not to be counted upon if Poland fell. "Instead," Feliks purred, reaching out for the hand again, which was given willingly, without conscious thought, probably. "You remind me that you took Liet because you weren't man enough to tell your humans to jump in a lake. You weren't man enough to do the _right_ thing. You weren't man—,"

Suddenly Austria twisted their interlaced fingers, pulling Poland closer as he fought back a snarl. "Prussia did worse."

Prussia was violent. He only wanted one thing when he took a nation. Each thrust, breathy crow, each piece of praise of himself was for his land, his people, and his way of carving deeply into his opponent that they were nothing in comparison to his power. Three times, and Feliks believed that he was an expert in Prussia and sex. There was only one setting, after all. Take and conquer.

"Prusy was _expected_ to do worse," Poland growled, forcing Austria to circle. It was not one of the beloved waltzes. "It's what he is. You were my _friend_ and you took Liet from me. And then you tell me that it's _my_ fault?"

Austria swallowed. Feliks watched the adamsapple bob with hard eyes.

Prussia was violent. Austria was cruel. Prussia never kissed Poland as he sank in. Feliks couldn't tell what was going on, when Austria began taking his partition. There were other ways. Softer ways. Harsher ways. _Better_ ways to take land. But Austria took his portion of Poland with a kiss that was pure _Roderich_. Beautiful and sweet, trying to smooth over the grim and bad reality of what he was doing.

Russia held him down, and laughed at his humiliation the first time. The second time, with Prussia's knife in his back, Feliks had his nose broken, and Russia laughing at him again, before screaming that he had corrupted Toris, and then there was just a memory of agony. The third time, Russia told him that he would consider making a hobby out of this. Because Poland was fun to partition. Then came the club and the fists.

Roderich chose a kiss. He chose to blame Poland. He chose to, in his rough German way, make the partitions feel as good as he possibly could. And it was so Roderich of him, that Feliks wanted to smash his face in, and set a horse on him.

"Yes. I said it was your fault."

Feliks let go. They spun apart. Poland did not want that filth touching him. "Liar. You are just afraid. When your empire crumbles Roddy, what will friendship mean to you then?"

Austria turned away, his shoulders angled in angry pride. "The same thing it does now. Guten Tag, Polen [21]."

Poland snorted. "If God has any feeling, you'll never find anyone willing to stick by you. Or, when you do, it will be too late. Go back to your _nobility_."

* * *

**October 1864 – Vienna, Austria**

Why were all the ceilings so tall when he nearly bumped his head on every door frame in these silly palaces? Austria's tastes in floral wall paper were not helping the scene, either, Denmark thought. Not much had changed since 1814. Austria was reliable that way.

A small noise by the too small door made him try to cover the mess he was currently in, but all he had were his hands and the flags. Prussia's idea of a joke, no doubt.

"Denmark?"

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Swiftly grabbing the white and black of Prussia's longer flag, Denmark tried to stand and wrap the cloth around his waist bare in one movement. The pain shooting up his spine suggested that he was going to be limping to wherever his clothes had been stashed. "Island, what in the Hell are you doing here?"

The purple eyes gave him a blank stare that made it clear that his question was beyond pointless. "I should have thought it was obvious."

Denmark scowled. Iceland was not Norge, and if he tried to act like him closer to Denmark's arm, he was going to get a right ding upside the head. Instead, the old nation had to lean against the table the two German nations had decided upon as the final site of punishment. The edge of the wood bit unpleasantly into the backs of his thighs. "I told you to wait. And if Faroes is with you, I will—,"

"She's not with me," Iceland leaned against the door frame, his face showing unveiled concern.

_Prussia leaned against the door, having tossed Denmark into Austria. His expression reminded of Denmark of a hawk just after a kill. Excited, hungry, and desiring much more. "Whoops. Y'gotta be careful on these thresholds, Matthias."_

Stepping past the doorway, Iceland trailed his fingers on that horrible wallpaper. It was just the steadying movement of a child looking for some familiarity in an unfamiliar place. Walls just as tangible walls under a hand were familiar. He froze suddenly. Swallowed. "Denmark? You're, ah, um?" Nervous fingers twitched towards Denmark's lower body.

Closing blue eyes tightly, the sandy headed kingdom tilted his head, and then looked. Through the white slash of the Prussian flag red welled, blotching the cloth. Oh fuck. That was still bleeding? Shit. Just. His hand balled into a fist. It rose to thump the table in fury, but the force was already gone. Just shit. "Um, yeah. Look, go find some bed linens or something, will ya, kid?" Denmark requested roughly.

"Austria won't mind?" Iceland's head tilted to one side, considering the curtains dangling from one broken curtain rod as bandaging material, no doubt.

_Austria called out in shock as he heard the brackets pop from the wall. Denmark tore the heavy drapes from one end of the rod, whirling to toss it at both members of the German Confederation. Prussia laughed, ducking under the fouling cloth, advancing even as Austria hung back, sidling out of range._

"_Treaty's been signed. Multiple treaties," the youngest one in the room hissed with elation. "Won't you come here and just give the land to us, will you?" In a bright blur the pale nation leaped for Denmark's throat, sword ready to deflect any missiles or limbs remaining in Denmark's arsenal._

Denmark shook his head. "And who cares if he does?"

Iceland shrugged. "It's his house."

An experienced, bitter smile graced Denmark's face. Aristocrats were _good_ at surviving, but he would put money on the fact that Gilbert would have this place, too, before the end of the century. The building of empires had a rhythm, and Prussia's was gearing up, even if his territory was negligible overseas. Austria did not stand a chance. "For now, Island. Anyway, he just took Holsten from me, so he can fucking give up a few sheets, yeah? Run along."

Iceland nodded, and ran. Denmark closed his eyes once more, tilting his face toward the ceiling. It was over, wasn't it? The hurt and anger bubbling and churning in his veins rushed headlong into the sea in his heart. God DAMNIT!

He pushed his body from the desk, and limped to the long window, keeping a tight grip on his humiliating wrap. That bright white sunlight of a partially overcast day filled the room. Sadly the view of the street was nothing to write back to Copenhagen about. Resting his arm on the wall, Denmark could still maintain the pride that he did not think of Prussia slamming his face into the wall nearby, over and over again until Denmark only had bright lights to fight against. That was probably how they had gotten his trousers removed.

Thumping the wall with a gentle fist, he leaned his forehead against cool glass. Don't think about it. Don't think about it.

Someone else stepped on that creaking board of the threshold into the room. It couldn't be Iceland, because they stopped for a moment. And then the familiar scratch of a voice, skittering over octaves. "Now _that_, that is a good look for you."

"Go _away_, Preussen!" Denmark felt himself reaching for an axe that had been lost somewhere back in Jutland.

A rustle of cloth and feathers, accompanied by some cheerful peeping crawled toward Denmark's ears. "Shush, birdie. Big old mean Königreich Dänemark is just a sore loser. Always has been."

Denmark's shoulders tensed. He prepared himself, ready to turn and rush Prussia. Kill him, if he could. "I took my licking. What do you _want_ now? The rest of Jutland? My islands?"

"A sandy wash of nothing but some pretty flowers, and a group of hard headed people dreaming of years long gone?" Prussia purred. "Nah. I'll let you keep those. Unless you get like Poland, of course. I've always fancied Copenhagen. Anyway, I'm here as a lowly mail boy this morning."

Denmark did not turn. He could feel Prussia slipping behind him, cold fingers sliding down the groove of his spine. "Any lower and you'll find out how it feels to reconstruct yourself from bits splattered on cobbles," the threat stilled those fingers.

Prussia laughed, angling himself to where he could reach the older nation's ear with his teeth. "Sorry, you wrapped up in my flag like that—well, it's a hard invitation to pass up, Matthias. And you know it's going to happen eventually. Once you're a little stronger. I don't take undesirable regions, after—,"

"Bruder!"

The shout rang from some further hall, and the fingers removed themselves. Denmark glanced to the side, seeing Prussia's mouth slide into an annoyed pout, narrow red eyes surmounting it. The way the gaze worked its way to the door spoke volumes about little brothers and their irritating habits. "In the conference room, Westen! You don't need to scream the whole place down!"

Catching Denmark's black expression, Prussia raised one white eyebrow, an evil grin spreading over his face. "That's _riiiiiiiight_. In the excitement I forgot," the freezing hand stole over Denmark's shoulders, and gripped the strong neck. "You _owe_ Lutz an apology. In a proper language and everything. With Norddeutscher Bund in your address, if you please [22]."

"What?" Denmark asked, startled. Not the apology. The war had started over his impatience with Ludwig, after all. "Is that what he's calling himself nowadays?"

Prussia shrugged, something tense and uncomfortable lurking in his face. "It's something we're thinking of trying out. He's-He's," Prussia trailed off for a moment, looking oddly vulnerable.

But that was Prussia after a victory, too. Assured that nothing could take him down, the former army asked for people to see his weaknesses. It was how France had managed to fuck with him only fifty years ago. If Denmark was quick, he could have Prussia on the floor, pleading for mercy and his life before Ludwig stepped into the room.

"_This is the bit you really like, isn't it?" Denmark skidded on the polished floor as Prussia slammed a booted heel into his throat._

_He gargled, clawing for Austria's chair, where the calmer nation waited for Prussia to subdue the northerner. The next blow came to the stomach. "The fight. Knowing that no matter how hard you lose, you still had it in you to take a chunk or two out of your opponent? You don't respect anyone who doesn't play by those rules, either, which I like. But," Prussia's gloating expression became a bloodthirsty snarl, "Lutz doesn't play like that. You slapped him around like your personal whipping boy," his feet hopped excitedly over the river of Denmark on the floor, one shiny boot slamming into Denmark's spine, causing the large nation to arch taut. "For what reason? Because he didn't punch you back when you punched him? Well, I got some saved up just for you!"_

"He's—ah fuck. What do you care?" Prussia finally managed. He grinned again. "The German nation is going to be the strongest power in Europe. That's all you need to know. That, and Schleswig is _mine_."

"_I'll be taking this, then," Gilbert drove his sword through Denmark's left thigh, stapling the naked nation to the table._

_Roderich, leaning over Prussia's shoulder frowned. "He was to be—,"_

_With a teasing lick of the lips, Prussia glanced at his ally and rival. "Jealous you can't have it? Go turn down the lights, Roddy."_

_Indigo flaming in the composer's eyes Austria gripped the right knee, forcing the inky map to swirl over Denmark's skin towards his fingers. Prussia smirked, ducking the inkwell that sailed from the darkness. Denmark, glistening unhealthily as he tried to curl upward from the table reached for another missile, willing the towns and villages away from Austria's grip._

_Prussia patted the clean shaven cheek with affection, withdrawing his fingers swiftly, as sharp fangs snapped at them. "You're not going to get what you want, Roddy, if you don't stake a claim. He doesn't give up."_

A creak of wood kept Denmark from throttling Prussia. He stared dully over his shoulder, looking at Ludwig, tall and broad shouldered, but not really seeing him.

The icy Germanic eyes widened, skating around the room. "Osten! Why haven't you cleaned this up? Austria has been very kind to let us stay here, and you trashed his palace. And why is Denmark wearing your—Prussia! Get him his clothes. This is not how things are done."

Gilbert stuck out his tongue. "Hey! _He_ did most of the trashing. I just helped a bit. C'mon Dänemark, don't you have something to say to Ludwig? I'm thinking something along the lines of: I'm sorry for inviting you to my table and then snatching your rightful land in front of you, and laughing about it? I'm sorry for beating you up whenever I wanted more money? I'm sorry for being an annoying shitty neighbor who has the impulse control of a five-year old?"

"Gilbert," Ludwig stared at his brother meaningfully. "Jetzt!"

Scowling, Prussia shoved his hands into his pockets. Something crinkled. He drew out a thick fold of paper sealed in wax, and tossed it at Denmark's feet, before stomping away. Ludwig remained in the doorway, painfully correct, and unhappily pink in the face. Denmark regarded his southern neighbor for a long moment. He never wanted to see either of them, ever again.

"You—I'm sorry. You appear to be wounded, Dänemark. I will get some bandages for you, until you heal," Ludwig began, but Denmark shook his head, wondering how surreal things could become.

He tried a grim smile, but that was not in his vocabulary at the moment. "Nah. I sent Ice out to pilfer some sheets."

Ludwig's noise of recognition fell into the gulf separating window and door. There was just cold glass separating Denmark from fresh air. He could toss one of the remaining chairs through the wood frame and then jump. Jump into free sky and get the hell away.

_Austria was a good kisser. It must be all of his practice. For a second, Denmark lost himself in the mouth, and then Holsten wriggled up the hand stroking his thigh. Evening blue eyes saw the word wrapping inkily around Roderich's shoulder, the letters rearranging themselves to say 'Holstein' as a final insult before sinking into Roderich's skin and vanishing from sight. Conquerors did not need to show the maps of their bodies to others. That was for defeated nations._

_Fury flooded Denmark's system, and he kicked out, toppling a chair, but not coming close to Austria because Prussia caught the foot, twisting warningly._

A noise brought his attention back to reality with a jolt. "Um, yeah, what?"

Ludwig cleared his throat once more. "I was wondering, if I may ask, what exactly happened here?"

Denmark snorted. What had happened? Papers littered the room. The daylight was picking up smears of his blood. One of the drapes spilled over the floor, and its mate was threatening to join it as it dangled on the end of the curtain rod. Three chairs were all but match wood. Denmark grinned evilly.

"As far as I know? A treaty was signed. All used to be so simple, didn't it? We'd meet, fight and it'd be over. Until the next time. When did we start getting nasty about things, do you know?" He limped toward the desk again, seeing his shirt trailing sheepishly behind one of the legs, making a break for the wall shadows.

Ludwig's answer was soft: "I don't. It seems as though we've always been like this."

Denmark paused. Surely Ludwig wasn't _that_ disenchanted with their lives. There had been good times when at worst a war meant drowning once or twice because Norge really did not like competition on his seas. When everything was back together between them by sunset. "Well, it wasn't always like this. Treaties and paper. Hah. Used to be all you needed was the word. Then people got in the way. Made us—,"

Ludwig did something that he never would have done a few years ago when Denmark could have reached across the table and smacked him for talking back to his big brother of an overlord. "I don't think humans can make us do as much as we say they can. There's something very dark inside us, Dänemark."

"Cynic," Matthias accused abruptly.

Ludwig shrugged. "Perhaps. But we've always been bad to one another. I met you swearing with Gilbert that together you'd grind Sweden's bones to paste and divide his land between the two of you. I fought by your side and witnessed you cut off his arm. He had Finland carve your face to ribbons at one point! Once you took pieces off of him an inch at a time. You said you wouldn't stop until he screamed. You think there was ever a point when nastiness was not part of what we did?"

Denmark ducked his head to hide a bit of a grin. Sverige had not screamed once, and run him right through, tearing into him with that calculation that only someone who knew you _really_ well could manage. "Helsingborg's still a bit of a mess, I'll admit [23]. But we didn't always used to fight this way. Once it was just me and Prussia sitting on Estonia's knees beating him about with a bible, you know? Poland chased us off eventually. I guess I started getting _nasty_ about things in 1520, well, _maybe_, I _started_ in 1450 or so, but still, it was wars, you know [24]. The battle field. We didn't _plan_ the nasty shit, it just happened. A natural consequence of me wanting your land, or you wanting to get your grain through this harbor without import fees, or whatever. 1520 was, well, I planned it. I didn't think it would go as far as it did, but still, I planned the thing, I suppose. But before that? You fought. You died. Life moved on. Now it's—there's something unclean about the whole thing. Something's wrong with, I dunno, the modern age, or something. It's all become treaties and broken unions, and words on stupid paper. It's doing something to the humans, and us. We never—"

_He waited far into the witching hours every night. Sve would stop by on occasion. Norge once or twice. And then, one morning, before false dawn could make her appearance, Father returned. Denmark helped his father out of bloody furs. They went swimming together, where Germania scrubbed more blood from long wounds running down his back and chest. He remained deadly quiet throughout the cleansing. _

_It was from these horribly silent mornings that Denmark learned the value of putting a wound behind you. How to forget the pain of the injury, even if the injury itself could not be so easily expunged. After the disappearances Denmark knew better than to ask about Rome. For days he would not mention the strong skirt-wearing man, and until several weeks had passed he would only refer to Rome distantly as 'that dark man from the south' because that was how the pain of Rome could be forgotten, even if there was still a Rome shaped scar in Germania's shoulder, or back, or chest._

Denmark smiled suddenly at the shadows. Waiting politely for the end of his sentence, Ludwig did not so much as shift his weight. Probably wise, Denmark thought, given how the cheap Austrian's palace was prone to groaning. However, for once Denmark just let the silence rest heavily on him. He was not going to share these thoughts for a huge box of Belgian chocolates and the entirety of Prussia and Austria. These were the kinds of things that he could only talk to Sverige and Norge about.

"If it's any consolation," Germany finally said, seeing that there would no longer be an exchange of opinion, "I'm sorry that it had to be this way."

"Had it?" Denmark inquired grimly, picking up his shirt and shaking it out. Blood had spattered over the cream in areas, and his vest was nowhere in sight.

A pause, long and thoughtful, filled the room, pressing on Danish ears. "Yes, actually. I don't think anything else could have made Gilbert and Roderich agree on anything."

_Norddeutscher Bund. Something we're thinking about._

Denmark stared at the shirt. Plans. "It's not going to be _Prussia's_ empire, is it?"

"I _need_ to be a nation as well, Dänemark. There is something—," Ludwig was interrupted by Iceland hurrying back into the room with linen.

Denmark straightened enough to see the slight scowl on Ludwig's face. Even if Austria had no grounds for complaints, he did not approve. He could go piss up a rope, as far as Denmark was concerned. With a click of his heels, Ludwig nodded stiffly, everything of the past few minutes melting into the nation face. It was a little creepy how much it reminded Denmark of Sverige, because that, too, reminded Denmark of the man who had raised him, and he couldn't help wondering, as he had many times before, exactly what Ludwig would look like with his hair longer.

"Please don't forget your letter," the representative of the various, disparate, bickering German lands nodded at the two.

Denmark pointed at the letter with a swift "Well, pick it up, kid," as he grabbed the sheets from Island, and began to rip into them. He pretended not to notice the near frustrated glare sent in his direction. He thought about reminding Island that if he did try to take advantage in the way Ludwig had, Denmark would teach him a painful lesson.

Instead he quietly dressed his bleeding thigh, trying to will the agony away. Soon the gash would close. Soon everything would be back to normal. Soon he would have revenge—How? A grim voice piped up, possibly in the guise of Island, or someone else with more common sense. What was the point of revenge? He always lost these measures. Did he really want to live under _Prussia's_ rule? Worse, possibly, might be Ludwig's.

Revenge was revenge. He wasn't a child, to cower in fear of losing. He'd faced worse.

He had help then, the grim voice of cynicism continued.

Iceland, who had his back expressively to Denmark as the man worked on his injuries, brought over a pile of rusty reds and browns. They weren't Denmark's clothes, and he looked up to see Hungary in the doorway. No question if they were at least the right size, anyway. "Go away."

She opened her mouth in protest or apology, or consolation to just something. Denmark lunged upright, the white and black flag tangling around his leg. "If you want all the juicy details, go ask your pansy husband! I'm sure Prussia would oblige if you really want! Otherwise: Go. Away," he began to sort through the multitude of layers involved in dressing. There was no creak of floorboards. "Island, get your puffin to attack her or something. I'll take responsibility."

"You need to talk—,"

Denmark snarled, his fist smashing into the table. "I've _got_ people to talk with. I don't need _any_ European help or _sympathy_. Go off waltzing, or whatever it is you Austrians do!"

A short whud made him look up. One hand had slammed palm flat on the thick wall between hall and room, as Hungary glared. Denmark almost grinned. He still had the talent of being able to really piss off anyone he wanted to. "Én vagyok _Magyarországon_ [25]," her face was scarlet, and Denmark wondered for a moment if she was going to attack him. She managed to stuff that annoyance somewhere else, however. "I'm sorry."

A swirl of green, and then she left. Denmark started to put on the garments that she had left. His beloved top hat was no where to be found, unfortunately. He lost more head gear this way, the limping nation thought grimly, trying to lighten his own mood, and failing spectacularly.

"C'mon, Ice, let's go," he snapped his fingers. "Oh, and gimme that letter."

Purple eyes looked blankly at him, but the thick paper was handed over. "It's from Sweden."

Indeed three crowns were embossed on the blob of red wax sealing the folded thirds. It could just be from Sverige's government, but a second blob showed two crossed swords, and Denmark's usual communications from Sweden's army tended to be more physical and violent than allowed by letter. An official missive, probably, but perhaps a personal promise.

Starved eyes lit momentarily, not that he wanted to let any kind of hope show where Prussia or Austria might see. Of course, long delayed, but welcome, anyway, Sverige was going to offer a quiet alliance against the German powers. All the meetings over the years had been worth it. Sverige now had seen that Denmark might need a bit of—not help, of course, but, well he was going to offer it anyway, because that was what officious, reliable Sverige did. Yeah. He'd offer help, and after a bit of insulting him, Denmark would work with him, and maybe he'd work things out with Norge so he could have use of the other's navy (he was not interested in anything else. The old joke was too old. Norge had no humor in his soul, and it did _not_ matter). Together, in a great alliance, they were going crush central Europe. Denmark would kid and rib Sverige for coming at the twelfth hour, of course, but he was going to be better about this than he had been in the past. He was going to make this _work_.

Eager fingers popped open the wax seals, and he unfolded the single sheet. At the top, Sweden's hand began with the date: the 10th of March. Denmark's eyebrows furrowed. This letter was a little late. Still, maybe Sweden had been unwilling to march to war if he had not had a personal meeting with Denmark. And Denmark had not received the letter because he had been busy, what with Prussia dragging Austria all over Jutland. That was it.

The noises of a quiet palace gave way to bustle of an active city as Denmark read and reread the words. The letter was short, and in bad Danish, but even so, he could not find any obvious mistranslation. There had to be a mistranslation. Somewhere. There had to be.

But nothing in the words changed, even when he tried translating from what he thought the Finnish would be into Danish. _Du startede denne krig, Danmark. Må ikke forvente sympati. Jeg ved, at du har været besat. Jeg har fuld tillid til, at du er i stand til at ændre situationen, medmindre du har glemt vores gamle lektioner_ [26]. The words refused to change.

Well, he could deal with that. He didn't need Sverige's help. He didn't need _anyone_. He was the Kingdom of Denmark! He was mighty. He was grand. He was the fucking _king_ of Northern Europe. And you know what, you bastard? This was just the excuse he'd needed. Everyone expected that he'd run around declaring wars. No support from the northern union? Who the Hell needed them, anyway? He certainly didn't. He could take his time. Some of his councilors had been making noises about fixing the agriculture problems. He'd look into that. He'd _fix_ things. He'd fix it all. Slesweg would run crying back to him, as soon as it could, seeing how well Denmark was doing. He didn't need anyone else.

"Fuck," Denmark muttered, crumpling the paper.

Iceland tilted his head to one side. "Bad news?"

"Fucking typical news. Now shut the fuck up. We need to get back home. You got the money for a carriage?"

The boy stared at Denmark in astonishment. "But—I—all I have comes from my allowance."

At this Denmark growled warningly. "Yeah, and I give that allowance to you. So you can spring for the carriage. It's all my money, anyway."

Accusing Denmark of being horrible with his expression, the dependent nation clenched his jaw stubbornly. "I need that money—,"

"Does it look as though I've got my wallet on me?" Denmark exploded. "You're fucking paying." He had to get back home.

"I'll tell Norway," Iceland muttered, fishing around his pockets for his coin purse.

Usually that threat made Denmark at least pause. Iceland did not like playing the tattle-tale card, because it meant that he had to talk to Norway, and he was just as pissed at Norway for leaving him with Denmark, as Denmark was pissed at Sweden for taking Norway from his union. But today was not a good day, and Denmark was not going to take back talk from his lands. Not today.

"You do that. He doesn't fucking _care_ what happens beyond his little argument with Sweden. You're _nothing_ to him. You're fucking lucky I'm willing to take care of you. I let you have your own house, and still let you eat at my table, you ungrateful little shit. Now, let's get the Hell out of this country."

He willfully did not see the fury that crossed Iceland's face. He ignored the fact that last night he had not expected to see anyone even vaguely willing to run around for him this morning. That was the duty of Danish territories, after all.

The people of Sweden, at this time, believe that wasting troops on a purely Danish problem would be ill-advised. You started this war, Denmark. Finish it on your own. Do not expect sympathy. I know that you have been occupied. I have every confidence that you are capable of changing the situation, unless you have forgotten our old lessons. If you can't get out of a fight, you should not have looked for one in the first place.

* * *

**January 1905 – Moscow, Russia**

_God, protect the Tsar!_ [27]_  
_

Ivan could not stop his hands shaking. He stared at them, long and hard, trying to curse them into stillness. His hands refused to obey. Maybe if he ignored the trembling it would go away on its own. Ivan couldn't afford this kind of weakness. Not in winter time.

The door to his room opened softly. Thinking it was Toris again, Ivan did not turn from the fire. He didn't want to face Lithuania right now. Toris had seen too much.

"Vanya?"

He swung around, eyes wide. Katyusha crossed the expanse of rich carpet, catching him around the wide shoulders in a hug that rivaled the fire place in warmth. The trembling spread from his hands, up his arms and finally across his whole body. What was going wrong? Why wasn't his control working? He had become so big and strong. He had defeated Sweden. He had Defeated the Ottoman Empire. He had fought off the Tartars and the Golden Horde. He had brought so many nations to live with him and why didn't they care or love him? They were nations. They were all they had of each other, so why was it all breaking down, and why was he breaking?

Ukraine held Russia up as he practically fell on top of her, a heaving trembling mess. He could feel dampness sliding down her cheeks where they met with his cold skin. She was mumbling something, but in the confusion whirling through his head all he could really hear was the soothing Russian chant of "Vanya, Vanya, oh poor Vanya."

Swallowing heavily, he pushed her away, holding her at arms' length, looking at Katyusha with unhappy relief. "I thought that you weren't speaking to me," he whispered. Like Tin—Finland. Like Natalya. Like Poland [28].

"Oh Vanya," Katyusha stroked his cheek comfortingly through her tears. "Some things are bigger than what your tsars do to us."

_Strong and majestic,_

Katyusha brought him warm tea as he sat on the old carpet, crying like a child. The samovar gleamed in yellow brass and the reflected warmth of the fire lit up the corner of the room where it nestled between bookcases. Ivan stared at it gloomily as Katyusha settled the steaming teacup in his hands.

"I am Russia," he mumbled, feeling his skull crack again. The cracks widened and spread, and filled with snow, which lay in drifts across his brain. General Winter would know his weakness, and come to test him again. "I am Russia. I am Russia. I am Russia. I am Russia. I am Russia. I am Russia."

Katyusha sat next to him, her yarn out, as she began to knit. "Not right now. For tonight, be Ivan. Please?"

He did not want to be Ivan. He wanted to be Russia. He wanted to be _land_. A vast stretch of wilderness with no mind to be confused, or body to be hurt.

_Reign for glory, For our glory!_

"Have I failed them?" Ivan asked, looking at the books once more, and gulping his tea.

Wind rattled the window, calling to mind General Winter's laugh. Katyusha's needles clicked together soothingly. The domestic noises only emphasized the smothering silences pressing around them. Smokey curls off the remainder of the tea filled his head, melting the snow. Katyusha refused to answer. Silence pressed. Ivan gave.

"Why won't you tell me?" the fine china smashed into brass bound handles, crashing into a tinkle of bone. Ivan stormed to his feet, his face red with screaming. "Why won't you tell me what's wrong, Katyusha? Why do you hate me? Why won't you give me the answers? I'm only a stupid child! I need you to give me direction!"

Furiously, he grabbed the back of his tall wing chair, and smashed it into the wall. The wood cracked. Snap. Crack. Bones. Bones. Human Bones shattering under bullets. Their screams as he began to bleed from the mouth. He was mighty! He was Russia! He was more than human! He was a nation! No matter his hardships he could not die. He was immortal. Inhuman! Their petty concerns were not his! He did not need them. _Why did they hurt so much as they died?_

A chair leg shattered in his hand. He stared at blood and splinters, before howling. His scream echoed beyond the walls of his room, swirling outside to be picked up by general winter's laugh. Katyusha, on the floor still, hid her streaming eyes behind the rapidly shuttling needles, raising the mere five inches of scarf as a badge of protection against her giant younger brother.

_God, protect the Tsar!_

No one would protect them. It had always been this way. His sister was the only one who would stand between him and the world, and one woman was not strong enough for that burden. Not for as long as she had to carry it, all alone. Ivan had vowed to help her, but he had been so helpless for so long. He had done her such disservice.

"I-I am sorry," he knelt to hug her. "You weren't supposed to see that."

Ukraine nodded, taking the tattered ends of his old scarf, ignoring the red brown stains of the morning, to dab her eyes. "I'm sorry, Vanya. I haven't done the best job of being a big sister. I should have seen this coming. I was so busy being angry with you for so long."

He stared at her, his face going rigid in shock. Katyusha was infallible. She had never hated him. Never. He had misheard that. She had just stopped speaking to him because she was concerned about Natalya and her own crops. That was all.

"You weren't really angry with me," Ivan told his older sister, reaching out to envelop her in a hug that would quench all protests.

She did not answer, because a good older sister would not shatter was little was left.

_Strong and majestic,_

What had gone wrong? Ivan asked himself as he cleaned up the shattered tea cup.

He was a land. He did not feel the pain of humans. Humans did not feel his pain. They were separate. He was alone, except for the others of his kind, and there were so few of them. They never wanted to visit. Why not? He was great and glorious. Toris could tell anyone who asked. So he was rough with Poland. He didn't like Feliks. He did not want to be stuck together with the heartless trickster for eternity.

"Did you really shoot your own humans?" Katyusha asked quietly.

Ivan smiled gently, trying to explain in a way that she would understand. "They weren't mine, really. They couldn't have been mine. They were betraying me. They refused to be happy. They were just peasants, you know. There are always more peasants."

Click. Click. Not so much as a sniffle. Ivan looked over. Katyusha had busied herself in her knitting. Her cheeks were still shiny with tear trails, and her eyes had that pink quality, but for some reason she was no longer crying. She was no longer even frowning. Her face had become that same blank Toris' became in the evening. Ivan hated that blankness. It meant that something had gone terribly wrong, and no one would tell him what was wrong.

"I was strong, Katyusha. You would have been proud of me."

The needles came to a halt. Ukraine turned her head to meet his innocent smiling eyes. Something flashed in her face, and Ivan wondered if she could see how broken his head was. He hoped not. Ukraine should never feel guilty.

_Reign for glory, For our glory!_

The clock surprised both of them, chiming a quarter hour. Ivan looked at the china and gold thing on the mantel piece. Katyusha looked at the decoration as well. "It's very pretty," her fingers swept the carpet under her knees. "I—You live in such a fine house, Vanya. Sometimes I forget that. Or I only remember the house and not you," she smiled sheepishly.

Ivan gazed at his hands. They were still shaking. Maybe they had never stopped. "Do you? Is that why you have been angry with me?" his voice was much quieter than he wanted it to be. He didn't sound strong enough to hear the truth. He had to be strong for his sister. Katyusha tried to protect him from too much.

She sighed. The knitting began once more, clever fingers working, probably in the hope of sorting out thoughts. She had told him before, when he was young and small, and the Tartars hurt them all, that she loved making scarves for him, because the act of knitting was relaxing. She could think everything through, and get her plans in order. Even if it's just for the next day, Vanya, having everything thought out is very important.

Russia tried to organize life along that same principal. If everything was planned out before hand then nothing could get in the way of those plans.

"You tried to take away my language. I know that you like Russian, Vanya, but to me, Ukranian is beautiful. I love to hear the children sing it—,"

Roaring filled his ears. Red filled his vision. Ivan sunk to the carpet moaning, as he hugged his knees. Happy children. He was supposed to have happy children. Why weren't they happy? Why didn't they love him? Why did they go against him?

Why did he go against them?

_Reign to foes' fear,_

His shriek cut through the room. Books exploded. Papers ignited. Katyusha screamed, running for the hallway. A log from the fire burst in wonder and glory all over the bookshelves. Orange and red cascaded away in sparks, but the yellow caught and flared to bright white.

Ivan grinned, feeling warm at last. Yellow surrounded him in licking flames. This was it. This was right. This was his happiness. His true heart. Holding blistered and peeling flesh to the flames he laughed. So warm. So perfect. Bright and burning, this was what love felt like. His heart had been with him all along. In the fire. In the pain.

Right now he was beautiful.

_Orthodox Tsar._

Water fountained. A sandbag slapped the flames. Wooden knitting needles became the sword of a just and loving sister, pulling him backwards from his office. Toris, kindly and fierce, ran in to combat the flames, a wet blanket muffling his head. Shouts and screaming reverberated in Ivan's ears as Katyusha organized people, trying to stop the fire before it spread.

They were all here, he thought, as Natalya's skirt dashed from the edge of his vision to the fore. Such a wonderful thing, to hear Tino and Eduard trying to convince Toris to let them in so that they might save the books [29], even as Feliks yelled to Toris to stay out of the place and work on the hallway, because the office was _gone_. Yet their argument, and the subsequent need to rescue Latvia from a falling beam only seemed to drop into a deep abyss. Hollow. Empty. Cold. Ivan wanted to be back there. Back in the fire. Where it was warm. Where everything was beautiful. Where he was marvelous, a bright shining star that shot from the back well of the heartless.

For a night, fighting flames, fighting Ivan's spirited efforts to join that fire, they were all as they were supposed to be. A family. Friends. Loved ones. Everything was perfect, as Ivan burned. But eventually enough water was procured, enough earth was thrown. Katyusha sat bandaging his torso, as Tino pronounced the blue military coat scrap. Natalya, banished to a corner by Katyusha after she proved a hindrance to bandaging Ivan, sharpened her knives, looking at Tino significantly.

Toris and Feliks pulled the samovar from the rubble. Eduard made tea. Silly little Raivis managed to burn himself on the first cup, which Ivan downed without tasting. He looked around at the assembled lands. No. Not lands. The words of Catherine were haunting him.

"Where am I going wrong?" he whispered, looking from one to the next.

He loved them all. They had to love him. They wouldn't have rescued his home, otherwise. But they hated him, too. Because they did not understand that he needed the inferno. He needed to burn to become pure to be beautiful. That was the secret. To be the last star in the sky you had to light it brighter than the sun.

He loved them. He asked them to tell him how to make his rule better. No one stepped forward with answers. He hated them.

Finally, scrubbing away the suspicion of tears, Katyusha spoke up. "You're not listening to us, Vanya."

"I am now!" Ivan thundered.

Tino, the first to truly betray him, looked around, and smiled sadly. It was a smile that said that this was old ground. "Venäjä, it's too late. Et kuuntele."

Ivan felt anger suffuse his body. "What does that even mean?"

Toris, green-eyed, tired, and slightly nervous looked up, always ready to draw Russia's ire. "It means you went too far for us. S-some of us, anyway."

"Totes, _no_," Feliks jabbed spitefully. "You've gone majorly too far for _all_ of us! We've been telling you for, like, _years_."

Ivan cast around for something to throw at Feliks, but Katyusha caught his hand. "No, Vanya. Listen to what we are saying. Even if you don't like it. The way you treat humans, the way you treat us, and the way you treat yourself is what is wrong. You need to start _listening_, because something has to change."

Ivan looked at his older sister. Change was terrifying. It had to be avoided. But Katyusha loved him.

From the corner, Belarus caught his eyes, and held them. "I am fine with your language and customs, brother," she told him, her eyes red rimmed. "But I wish to have some of my own, too. Just a little. Not much. I love yours more. But sometimes you forget me, and then I need something of my own to keep me company."

Ivan looked at them all. He was still missing something. They all thought the way Belarus did, as far as he could see. But thinking like Natalya was dangerous. He could not let them think that he would forget them. He could never forget them. They were his family. His friends. Yet their complaints made them hate him.

"I love you all," he mumbled, at a loss. But only Natalya beamed at this pronouncement.

Eduard just shook his head. "Th-that doesn't m-m-matter, now."

"Whatever's in your head totally isn't love," Feliks muttered, understanding the role of the scarf much better than anyone else.

_God, protect the Tsar!_

_Reign to foes' fear,_

_Orthodox Tsar._

_God, protect the Tsar._

* * *

**May 1942 – London and Hastings, England**

It was rainy. That made Alfred grin. It was always rainy in Britain. At least, according to his view of England. Arthur had always been surprised by his cloudless summer skies. Alfred had been surprised to see only Matthew in White Hall, going through espionage reports. Arthur not being in London had seemed, well, wrong. Alfred flitted around his country, but that was because there was such an awful lot of America, while England was a postage stamp in comparison.

Together they had opened Arthur's office, Matthew trembling, and going on about curses, while Alfred plowed in, surveyed the mess, and decided that only a true hero and friend could help clean the room. He also pointed out to his brother that unless Arthur had managed to discover alcohol based magic, they were safe from any curses. Matthew ventured, on a border between timorous and sarcastic, that they might not be safe from glass cuts. They had spent a good two days on neatening up the office, throwing out all plans that involved magic, despite the fact that Matthew seemed to believe all the bosh, and was quite terrified that Alfred might sit on the chair with a note reading: "Sure Death: Get America to sit on it." Please, Alfred knew better than doing anything England's hand writing suggested.

After removing the empty bottles, and refiling the reports and documents scattered around (okay, so America invented his own filing system. It was a security precaution, really. Just because Arthur would have to either beg him to sort out the documents, or remember Mattie's name to do it did not have a bearing on anything. Really) Alfred looked at Matt.

"So, I'm here to save the free world as we know it. Where is Arthur, so we can get down to business?"

"RAF airfield, South Coast," Mattie replied, adjusting his goggles. He smiled tiredly, "It's been good to see you, Alfred. If you want to call a meeting, I'm sure Russia and France could come over at short notice. Poland's kicking around somewhere. Er, unless he's trying to convince everyone of the usefulness of a cavalry charge. Then he's probably being kicked somewhere."

Alfred blinked. "Wait, _Russia_? Isn't he the Bolshie enemy?"

"He's been on our side since before your ruckus with Japan," Canada shrugged, as they carefully closed Arthur's office, locking the door. "Sure, he's a little, you know," Matt shook his hand, trying to find a polite way to say 'off kilter,' "but he's generally pretty nice to me. He even remembers that I'm not you most of the time, and doesn't call me 'Commonwealth.'"

Alfred nodded. "Okay! I can work with that. I'll just have to get to know him, and then I'm sure that we'll be good f-friends."

God, the tremor in his voice crawled along his spine. Matt luckily didn't understand, and instead looked at the corners apprehensively. "Wow. He must be close by. I've heard his aura can really mess with you if you aren't careful. He curses Japan all the time, he says."

Alfred smiled grimly. "I'm sure we'll be best friends. Y'know, I couldn't help noticing I don't have that many allies in the Asian theater."

They walked down the wide steps, and Matthew gestured mutely at the pile of rubble just down the block. "UXD went off during the Blitz. Sorry. Mind the debris. Anyway, you were saying? Isn't China helping you?"

"That's the one with the pandas without Arthur's eyebrows, right?"

Canada grinned, his laugh rusty. "You left a bit of a modifier dangling. I'll assume you mean that the country has the eyebrows, and not the pandas. Yeah. He's Russia's friend, I think."

America paused to allow a bicyclist past. They continued on, towards a car. "Yeah, he helps out, sort of. Same way Philippines helps, and Korea. Japan's just, well, a lot to handle."

Canada nodded gamely, opening the car door for him. Alfred grinned. "Thanks for letting me drive, Mattie."

"Uh, _no_. No such luck," Canada replied, getting into the right side. "You're lucky we're not walking. Getting petrol coupons is a nightmare, these days."

America blinked, as Canada smoothly pulled away from the parking spot. "But, we're _nations_, surely if it's for the war effort, or whatever."

Matthew smiled mirthlessly. "This isn't the land of roses and chocolates, Alfred. It would be unpatriotic for me, especially me—you know we could definitely cover the distance if we needed to without the car—to use military petrol on a simple drive to get you to see Arthur before we go and get planning. It's not a proper use of our resources."

"You'd really make me get out and walk?" Alfred exclaimed. He crossed his arms. "This, this right here, this is why you're late to meetings. How can you be such a stick in the mud?"

"Well, that's Captain Stick-in-the-Mud, to you, so you're better remember to stand to attention when I arrive at pointless meetings late due to not wanting to waste resources," Matthew shot him a grin.

Alfred made a mental note to see to it that his people treated him as at least a major. He looked out at the countryside. "So, what are they having you do?"

"Training Arthur's people," Matt replied lightly. "I'm in charge of airfields for the RAF, and I've got a ton of snipers that I'm very proud of. I do home defense forces training, too, and I'm on convoy duty at least once a month."

Alfred nodded. That fit with everything he'd heard so far. "Who has been in charge up home for you? I wouldn't have thought that you could stretch so far."

Matt, who had been scraped thin by the long years, nodded in agreement. "I try to get home about once or twice a year. It's been harder, now that I don't have the excuse that I'm trying to do under the radar diplomacy to get you moving. Ontario seems to be doing a good enough job in my place, though, and he'll always have Quebec."

"Oh joy," Alfred sighed. "Probably a good thing that all of New England insisted on joining up, then. Minnesota is going to have words with me when I get home. I can feel it."

"You left _Minnesota_ in charge?"

Alfred gripped the door handle as they swerved around a hay wagon. "No; New York and Missouri are. Minnesota had to come back with me when we got out of Bataan. Hospital rest in winter with Ontario and Manitoba running around with no parental advice, though. Imagine how you'd feel."

Matt nodded in understanding, although little sympathy. "I suppose that's true. What's Asia like, then?"

"Oh, you know, hot, jungle-y," Alfred waved a hand. "A lot of my boys died there."

The blankness in Matt's eyes was a little worrying, considering that he had those eyes on the road. "Well, that's how it is. More will die on this front, too."

Alfred didn't like the dry fact-i-ness of that statement. He stared at the tall grasses speeding by, wild flowers just blooming, as the rain drizzled off them. What amazing blotches of color they made against the gray. "So, you got anything else to report about your doings?"

Matt's small exhale was the equivalent of rolled eyes. "Yeah. Mostly I make sure things work."

"Huh?"

"Oh, you know, things like making sure Arthur is up in the morning, and gets to his meetings. Or if France needs something for a plan I get a hold of it, or Russia needs to coordinate with us, I manage the phone calls. When I get back, I think I'm going to go into theater, and become that one tech guy whose job it is to see that nothing goes wrong."

Alfred snorted. "Trust me, I've worked Broadway, there is no such position."

Canada considered this for a long minute. "Hmm. How about the guy who is supposed to make sure that nothing goes wrong, and then swears loudly and bunks off for a cigarette once it does?"

"There's definitely room for opportunity in that direction," Alfred nodded sagely. Thoughtfully watching the scenery he tried to think up a plan. "Hmm. So, you haven't _really_ left the island since—,"

"Since Trondheim. I mean, I was at Dunkirk, but that was in my role as the guy there to make sure that nothing goes wrong. I also occasionally go on quiet runs for the Ministry of Dirty Tricks, but that's not so much Canadians as Canada and his special invisibility, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I'm a good teacher, it turns out. They don't want me to leave. After watching England and Wales try to teach together, I think I can see why."

Alfred snorted. "Try having England teach anything and it'll be a miracle if his humans survive. Hmm. Anyone tapped Australia for help?"

Matt nodded. "Certainly. But his commute is even worse than mine, and we needed him in the Pacific, even before you joined."

Allowing that to slide, Alfred looked out the window again. "You think he'll be surprised to see me?"

Silence dominated. Then, Canada, who could read in between multiple lines, even in American English, replied: "Surprised to see you? Probably. It depends on where we find him. But he's not going to be pleased."

"I come in to save the old man's ass, and so _of course_ my reception is going to be impolite," Alfred grumbled, sitting back in his seat.

Canada's derisive noise was all that the twin blonde needed to know that he was about to be taken down a peg or six. "You think we'll all be home by Christmas, just because you're here, do you?"

Deciding that the silent treatment would let him escape a lecture, Alfred remained quiet for at least fifteen more minutes, formulating a plan. "So, you've got to get off the island—,"

"We've _all_ got to get off the island," Canada whispered. "Me, England. Everybody. We're defeated, Alfred. Okay, so we got a bit of hope when Germany invade Russia and he switched sides, and then some more when you showed up, but I don't think, unless we win something really big, we're going to get rid of this feeling as though there is an anchor around our necks."

Alfred, never one to be contained, shivered expressively. "Brr. Is that what it's like?"

The car wheeled into Hastings. For a moment Matt had to close his eyes in concentration, and then he scowled, pulling into the nearest parking spot. Getting out, he stumped around to America's side, and looked down the walk, muttering to himself. "I don't freaking believe it. He says he's going to go review his planes, fly a few missions, get _out_ of the office, and he comes down here on his off time to waste money on antifreeze alcohol at the pub."

Alfred followed Matt's stare to a shoddy little building with a sign out front declaring it _The Red Lion_. "Surely it can't be that bad."

"Hah," Matt groaned. "Hah! We'll have whiskey and brandy, and gin if it's handy, and moonshine by the tun. I don't mean to say _England_ has a problem. But I'm pretty sure that _Arthur_ does with this stuff, and that's how our national spirit is manifesting itself. Beaten, defeated, and ready for the next drink. If only his hobby was skip rope, or something happier."

"Yeah, but being defeated at skip rope is pretty pathetic," Alfred pointed out, before starting for the doors. "C'mon, Matt. I think I have a plan for how things are going to shape up, you know?"

Realizing that Alfred was going to try to share this plan with England before letting Canada screen it for stupidity, Matthew moaned, and trotted after Alfred. However, his brother nation had already made it inside the pub before he could get to the swinging doors.

Through surprisingly clear air—back home, this place would have been wreathed in cigarette smoke—Alfred made out a crumpled heap in a green uniform by the bar, drawing dulsitory circles and arcane formulae in spilled beer on the counter. "Yo, barkeep," Alfred boomed jovially, making certain that his voice was so loud that not even Arthur could pretend that he was anyone else. "I'll have a pint."

"Ignore him," Arthur ordered, swinging up in his seat, his voice reverberating in command. He glared over his shoulder. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Alfred just grinned, sliding into a seat. "Saving you, like a hero should."

"Pah!" Arthur went back to his curse circle, adding curlicues to represent Nantucket. "Like I needed saving. Especially not from you. By you. Definitely, I need saving from you. Git."

Slapping him on the back, Alfred grinned. "Awww, Artie, it's not that bad, is it? Just say: 'thank you for breaking your neutral—,'"

Arthur shot up in his seat, his eyes glazed with fury. "_Thank you_? To a _fool_ who was almost too late for the last war, and I don't know why he bothered to show up for this one at all?"

America scowled. "Hey, the hero always saves everyone at the last minute."

"You useless _child_! This is not a story book! Your 'last minute' gets people KILLED!"

He knew that. Of course he knew that. He had lived it time and time again. Arthur had no right to even think for one moment that he did not feel that, know that, and live that. But suddenly Mattie was between them, pushing both nations back into their respective seats.

"Arthur, America has come early, before the conference begins, because he wants your advice on a plan he's got in the works. Alfred, tell him, eh?"

Put on the spot, Alfred almost couldn't move, or think or breathe. Plan. Plan. Plan. What had his brilliant plan been? Oh! Right. "Well, obviously we're going to have to free France," he began. "But I was thinking past that, actually. To the next step."

"You mean besides storming across Western Europe to knock politely on Germany's bunker?" Arthur asked sarcastically.

Nodding seriously, Matthew managed to stop the impending fight once again. Alfred continued, trying not to seethe. It was beautiful in its simplicity, so England had to approve. "Yeah. I was thinking, you're tied up in Northern Africa, right? Well, the only person there right now is Italy, right? Leaving Romano at home. Which means, well, after we get France back together, we need to invade Italy!"

* * *

**Footnotes and Annotations**

* * *

[1] - The First Partition only occurred because there was a short sharp war, and when the Sjem was asked to ratify the partition Polish politicians blocked the door in an effort to keep their countrymen from actually signing the document. As mentioned above, Prussia had already bribed the Grodno Sjem to sign the treaty agreeing to the Second Partition, even though there was no popular support for suddenly becoming Russian or Prussian land.

[2] - Prussia had recently lost Old Fritz, who had kinda turned against him in the end. Old Fritz became kinda jaded at the end of his life. Everyone still loved him, but he wanted to be the kind of crotchety old man who hangs out in his house with his dogs yelling at kids to get off his lawn. He had outlived all of his friends, and didn't really want to go out and make replacement friends, so he shut himself up with his books and music when he wasn't out inspecting his armies.

[3] - Prussia did not take Warsaw until the Third Partition of Poland. However, the way Prussia tended to add territory to its lands often was based upon whether it thought that the geographic area was interesting, or not. The land between whatever city or grain field Prussia had set its sights upon and actual Prussian soil was just a bonus that could be held by Prussia or not. Obviously, this as a foreign policy had some interesting effects.

* * *

[4] - Piimä is a fermented milk drink native to Finland. I have never tried it, and I'm not certain that it can be found in the Southwest, but I imagine that Tino is subtly trying to give Russia a message or two.

[5] - Viina is a grain alcohol that is the Finnish equivalent of vodka. I believe that the proof is higher, however. Although that might just be circumstantial evidence.

[6] - The Royal Academy of Åbo (the Swedish name for Turku) was renamed after the Russians took over Finland, to become the Imperial Academy. This University was originally built to serve the needs of the Swedish upper class in Finland, and so the fact that the students who enter speak Swedish is no accident. The Academy, like the capital, was later moved to Helsinki, although this was because the Great Turku Fire burned down the Academy in 1828.

[7] - Åland is obviously the Finnish island of Åland, which honestly has Swedish roots so thick that you can't fell the tree. Even at this point in history when the Swedish influence is still strongly intertwined with the Finns, Ålanders (I'm not certain if I'm using the right English demonym) stood out as being extra Swedish.

[8] - 'Norja' is Finnish for Norway. Please note that the initial autonomy that was granted to Finland meant that the use of the Finnish language suddenly flowered. Which is nice for me, because I love a language that will use any excuse to double up a vowel, even if I can't actually read it. I just look at the word and get a warm fuzzy feeling.

[9] - 'Suomen suuriruhtinaskunta' is Finnish for 'Grand Duchy of Finland.'

[10] - As mentioned in the historical note, Finland did not initially have to pay that many taxes, especially in comparison to the money that Russia poured into it. Simply put the Russian Empire was so large that it could make up the economic loss that it suffered getting Finland back on its feet. But once Finland was, and the whole taxation issue was raised, things started to get a little ugly.

[11] - 'Великое княжество Финляндское' is Russian for 'Grand Duchy of Finland' and is pronounced 'Velikoye knyazhestvo Finlyandskoy'

[12] - Shvetsiya

* * *

[13] - The Battle of Lützen was the battle in the Thirty Years' War where Gustavus Adolphus was killed.

[14] - 'Stormaktstiden' is Swedish for 'Era of Great Power' and is used to talk about the time of the Swedish Empire.

* * *

[15] - 'Svensk mark' is Swedish for 'Swedish land.'

[16] - 'Bagatell' is Norwegian for 'little thing/something of no importance.' I stink at naming things, but Norway knows all of his trolls by name. He's that kind of person. Anyone have any other troll or fairy names that they prefer, I'm glad to take them.

[17] - Buck up, Canada-kun, it might just be that _Arthur_ is horrible with names! Not that he's a forgetful guardian who needs to be smacked about by an irritated polar bear or Prussia, depending on your favored method of England reminding. On a more serious note, contemporary political science papers commented that Norwegians abroad were believed to be Swedes (particularly by the Brits, but these were papers being written by American academics who tended to be dismissive of the English in general. Pish, tush, Oxford? That's a little hole in the wall), which was rather interesting, given how strongly they felt about their status as a separate nation. Dun worry, Norway, your work paid off! Now only Americans have difficulties telling the Swedes and the Danes apart. We know all about _you_. You're the uncooperative bastard with all that oil!

* * *

[18] - All over the Hapsburg Empire various ethnic nationalities are bidding for reforms and freedom at this time. Just as in Scandanavia, old peasant folkways became the romantic fad, and people began to dress in versions of what they believed to be their cultural heritage. The more anti-Western fashion the costume, the better. Big color and masses of baroque embroidery with high skirts (they showed above the ankle, begad!) were really popular. On a political level Hungarians were fighting amongst themselves for using Hungarian, instead of Latin as the official language, and helping out the poor, and doing other things that aristocratic classes generally find suspect. The Hungarian nobility started going in for assassination, and arson in a big way. The events leading up to 1848 were not pleasant. Austria was wary of all of this, as cultural nationalism was a huge threat to Imperial unity, but due to hands-off political approach, it allowed the laws to remain the same, while not addressing the social issues that challenged the law. If any district got too uppity, the Hapsburg nobility figured that riding in and cracking a few heads in an appropriately violent and brutal way would solve the issue. It was a tried and true political method, after all, but it becomes a little harder to crack a multimillion person population in open revolt over the head.

[19] - Fryderyk Chopin, a Polish composer and nationalist in a time when Poland was not even a nation. The man played a _mean_ piano. Seriously, go out and listen. He owns Mozart. Freaking owns (I admit my opinion of Mozart is significantly lowered by Mozart's penchant for pastorals. If I was just looking at things like the Requiem or the Queen of the Night Aria, the contest would be harder to judge).

[20] - 'Mają _prawo_ języku polskim?' should be Polish for 'They are _allowed_ to speak in Polish?' I am very leery of this translation. Corrections are always welcome.

[21] - 'Guten Tag, Polen' is German for 'Good day, Poland.'

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[22] - 'Norddeustcher Bund' is German for 'North German Confederation' and one of the names that Germany took on as it worked toward unification. It represents the alliance with the German States, including Schleswig-Holstein, and Prussia. This will not be adopted for a few years, however, Bismark knows which way the wind is blowing for Prussia and Germany. More on this little historical tangle in the next chapter or so.

[23] - The Battle of Helsingborg is the last Swedish victory in the Great Northern War. Basically Denmark, invaded Scania and pressed forward, while Sweden retreated. The Danes got comfy for about a year, and then the Swedes drew out the Danish lines, so that they were ragged and stretched far too thin, and circled around, hacking the Danish Army to pieces. The Danes and Swedes fought so hard, though, that it took until just about the time of this scene for the place to return to something other than a poverty poor battle field. Keep in mind, this battle happened during the Great Northern War, which ended with the Treaty of Nystad in 1721. This scene takes place in 1864. I'm not good at math, and I can tell that's a looooong time for recovery.

[24] - 1450 is about the time that the first _major_ Swedish-Danish dispute within the Kalmar Union took place. Thanks to the need for three countries to agree on the king of the Union, each time a monarch died, the Kalmar Union had a tendency to dissolve for a few months, or, once the Danes and Swedes started to _really_ get into the whole political succession thing, explode into small wars. 1520 is the date of the Stockholm Bloodbath, where the Danes, after yet another invasion of Sweden, took over the capital and invited the nobles to a dinner party celebrating Danish awesomeness. Well, turns out the best way to celebrate Danish awesomeness is by stabbing your Swedish guests in the back, gloating over the remains, get roaring drunk and go on a rape and pillage expedition of the main city thoroughfares.

[25] - 'Én vagyok _Magyarországon_' is Hungarian for 'I am _Hungary_.' Austria has not yet gotten his act together and Hungary has not yet proposed to him, and right now their relationship has been rocky given the nationalism sentiments, and Austria's brutal suppression of Hungarian rights and culture. But the most stable Hetalia divorced couple is about to finally stop dancing around this issue in three years (guess why I added that sixth drabble to Worldly).

[26] - 'Du startede denne krig, Danmark. Må ikke forvente sympati. Jeg ved, at du har været besat. Jeg har fuld tillid til, at du er i stand til at ændre situationen, medmindre du har glemt vores gamle lektioner,' is Danish for 'You started this war, Denmark. Do not expect sympathy. I know that you have been occupied. I have every confidence that you are capable of changing the situation, unless you have forgotten our old lessons.' Denmark is only reading the bluntest part of the letter. I had a full length letter written, but I wasn't sure enough of the translation to risk it.

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[27] - The text interrupting the scene is a translation of an orthodox hymn sung by the Russian protesters as they were gunned down by tsarist troops. It sounds beautiful in Russian, but everything sounds beautiful in Russian. Case in point: 'Become one with Russia' should sound like: 'Stan'te odnim s Vanya/Rossiyeĭ.' (I prefer 'Become one with Vanya,' because the message is oddly much creepier).

[28] - All these regions had experienced Tsar Alexander II's program of Russification, and for them most part reacted _very_ badly to it. Even Belarus, which was at the time just an ethnic grouping, found ways to subtly rebel against the insistence on a unified Russian culture across the Empire at the expense of the White Russian culture. Russia faced the same problems that Austria had as nationalism swept through Europe, and chose to force ethnic homogeneity on its disparate groups, so that it would not have the rebellions that Austria faced. This approach did not seem to work any better than ignoring the problem.

[29] - Thanks to reader Anon for pointing out that "In 1827, the University of Helsinki got the right to obtain a copy of every book printed in the Russian Empire for its collections. This collection was almost sold after Finland gained independence, but for some reason it was not, and collecting continued, it was just harder than it used to be." I had Estonia and Finland trying to save the books because Estonia cares deeply about knowledge and Finland would want to be there for Estonia, but this piece of knowledge makes it even better.

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Thank you very much for reading. I think I might have lost a little bit of my soul writing some sections. Geh, I still need advice on fixing the Norway and that trite Bloody Sunday Russia section. But the rest was necessary to bring my characters through to the end. Hang in there my Nordics, it will get better! Er, Poland, well, you will rise, right? And if I've made people feel conflicted-hate for Prussia (or straight out hate), then I've accomplished at least one half of my goal.

~ MF


	5. That Which Is Indomitable

**Author's Note**: So, we're over half way! Woot, guys! I never thought that it would get this long, but you've stuck with me for over 100 pages, more than 90,000 words, and who knows how many characters. Here's to the next 90,000.

I'm so sorry that this is late. I decided to re-write Poland's Warsaw scene at the last minute, and that took much longer than I thought it would. Poland's section was originally written as the non-italicized bits, so it was actually half its length. I had two ideas that I was tossing around in my outlines, either doing a section on the January Uprising (1863-65 which must be a very long January), or something on the Flying School, and other methods of keeping a culture alive when you have Russification steamrolling through your heritage. I went with keeping the culture, because honestly, I get the feeling that all the readers are fine with the number of scenes revolving around destruction of internal organs being one, and I really wanted to work with Toris some more. I have some stuff that I need to establish for him before the final chapter, and the way Lithuanians resisted Russification involves books. Therefore I'm a sucker for it.

Well, I had Poland's bit written, and was working on other silly things like 1940, and I happened to find the biography of the Russian Governor General of Lithuania during the Reign of Alexander III and Nickolas II. He was lovingly known to his Lithuanian, Polish, and Belorussian subjects as the Hangman of Vilnius. Yeah. Now, I couldn't allow that kind of human misery and suffering go without writing about it, since I find the depths of human depravity comforting, as we all know. So, I took out the boring bits of Poland's section, mostly involving running around the streets of Warsaw, and inserted chunks from the January Uprising storyline that I had originally intended, and the aftermath that said governor General participated in. I don't know if stylistically this was a wise choice, or just irritating. I'd love to hear reader opinion on this.

This chapter is very kolkolkol heavy. Chapter Three was brought to you by gore, Chapter Four could not have happened without partitioning, and Chapter Five gives the 'M' rating to Russia, because he's worked so hard for it.

**Warnings: **Prussia swearing in English and German; Poland getting in touch with a sharper side of himself; Belarus losing her Catholicism; excessive human on nation violence; Russia trying to make sense of his life; Kenraali Talvi; gracefully losing to Nazis; good cop, bad cop; American war crimes; an Easter egg for James Joyce fans, and one for Discworlders, as well.

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**Eight Men**

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**Historical Notes**

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**Berlin** - German unification was not an easy thing. In the waves of nationalism that hit Post-Napoleonic Europe, German speakers stood around blinking, and said to themselves, why there _are_ a lot of us, all spread out. Why don't we talk about coming together? They wanted a revolution that would unite them, fix the crappy economic disputes between provinces, get the same general education system because smart people deserved to be educated, and it would be nice to be able go for a walk without crossing over forty different legal jurisdictions. So, a revolution, but not one of the crazy French variety, or the smoldering Dutch kind. Just an orderly polite German slide into a united nation with a good economy, and some recognition on an international level.

Unfortunately for most German speakers with these ambitions, they lived in a fractured bunch of principalities that could barely tolerate one another legally, economically, and socially. If two of the Principalities managed to agree on the export fees of forest mushrooms it was only a miracle accomplished by a knife to the governmental throat. Internally, each principality was massively corrupt, and holding onto law and order with spit and a little hope. There was only one German speaking area where everything seemed to be working out on a social level, the Kingdom of Prussia. They had an army that was feared the world over (when the great powers of Europe remembered that it existed). They had commerce. They had trade. They had an education system. They had infrastructure and railways. The trains ran on time! Not everything was perfect, but it was reliable, precise, and on the whole, seemed to work.

So, Germans asked the King of Prussia to be the head of a new German state. Wilhelm was horrified that 'the people' were trying to make him an Emperor rather than Prussia taking that Empire by conquest. Men could not crown other men. It was just wrong. Besides, he was the king of a very powerful independent kingdom. If he were to become an Emperor, his kingdom would become just one of the many principalities within this new German state, and this could mean that power over that state could be wrested away from his family. But he had a very clever minister named Otto von Bismark, who decided that the way to permanently stabilize Prussia as a strong power was to incorporate it with the German state-as the head of the German state. As long as the pesky Austrians did not take the German crown first.

**Warsaw** - In January 1863 riots broke out in the Polish-Lithuanian partition of Poland. These riots were not fully quelled until the last insurgents were killed in 1865. The Uprising had many factors that helped set it in motion. Russia had just lost the Crimean War, and looked weak enough for people from the partitioned lands to think that they could become a free state once more. As a reaction to losing the Crimean War, Russia instituted a program to eliminate all differences between nationalities within the Empire. People would be Russians or traitors, end of statement. Lithuanian and Polish were no longer the languages of business, and it was illegal to use them in public. Catholic churches were demolished, while crumbling Eastern Orthodox Churches were given a fresh coat of paint. Books published in the Lithuanian language were completely banned. Serfdom had been eliminated, but the Russian nobles were griping about that, so the state paid them off, while collecting a freedom fee from the former serfs, which meant that they were now free, with no means of income, and a complete inability to get anything even remotely good as far as land went. So, in reaction to all of this, the Lithuanians, Poles, and Belorussians rose up against the Russian oppressor. Most of the people being peasants, they rose up only to discover that the Russian Army was not a friendly fighting force, and its commanders were by and large, not precisely sympathetic men.

In the Russian Grand Duchy of Lithuania there was a man named Mikhail Muravyov, who was the Governor of this district and a staunchly pro-Russians only in the Empire kind of guy. How he was viewed by his contemporaries is a bit of a mixed bag. Either he was a patriot acting in the defense of a fracturing Empire, using measures that were not unheard for his time and place, or he was a raving psychopath dressing up his violence in the guise of a tsarist. During the January uprising he hanged any insurgents he found still alive after his troops had finished burning their villages to the ground, tortured all useful information about the other local insurgents in the area from them, and possibly raped a few to be on the safe side. It was he who instituted the ban on written Lithuanian in 1864. After the uprising ended with mass deportations to Siberia, the Lithuanians decided that the only way to keep their ways alive was to keep their print culture alive. As Latin alphabet presses were banned in Russian held Lithuania, the profession of book smuggler from other continental areas became a very prestigious job. Most of the books were printed on the presses of the Prussian partition of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth.

**Helsinki** - The post-Crimea Russification did not hit Finland as hard and fast as it did the rest of the Empire. The main goal was the elimination of Finnish autonomy within the Empire. Finland's laws, mostly the same laws that they had from Sweden in 1809, had been held as equal to the laws of the Russian Empire, and so the first act of Russification was to make imperial Law dominant through out Finland. Then Russian became the language of administration, and conscription for the Imperial army, rather than the Finland only army started up. The Finns, not entirely enamored with these changes resisted peacefully, through demonstrations, and strikes. But Imperial Russia's laws were not fun, lovable things, and if the governor of the Duchy believes that he is actually ruling a bunch of foreigners, rather than regular Russian citizens, things are liable to turn negative. On July 16th a Finn acting alone, Eugene Schauman, shot the governor of Finland. Now this assassination might have been taken very poorly by Russia, but instead, Russia put in place a new Governor, one far more sympathetic to Finland's tribulations, and pretended to forget about the whole affair.

**Christiania** - Norway gained independence from the Swedish crown in 1905, after a long back and forth between the Norwegian Storting and the Swedish crown and Riksdag. The two countries had grown politically less similar as their union continued, and as Norway began to expand its international feelers towards England (a difficult task, because legally, only Sweden could deal with the international community), Sweden had begun to ally itself more closely to Prussia and Germany. Norway was still mostly in the same position that it had been in in 1814, where it was one of the most liberal states in Europe, but it's big friend was now England, which looked upon republics with deep suspicion. So, Norway was independent, but in the market for a King, as the rest of Europe, besides France, was monarchy friendly.

**Tolvajärvi **- The winter of 1939-1940 was horrifyingly cold. This is a problem for countries that decide an invasion of Finland is on their winter vacation plans, which the Soviet Union had. Not only was it very cold and very snowy, in Finland during the winter it is well nigh impossible to attack from the north because there simply aren't roads up there, and even tanks have difficulty with driving conditions that consist of snow, tree trunks, random rocks, and the occasional lake. So the Russians poured up the Karelian Isthmus, and started attacking villages along the border of Finland. The Finns were out numbered one to four or five, depending on the battle. They had no equipment except for their skis and what they stole from the Russians. It was an innocent neutral nation that was being pounded by the bulk and fury of the red Axis, and it was actually repelling Russia. It garnered a huge amount of sympathy on the international stage, but most of this sympathy seemed to be stopping just short of actually doing anything. It did not help that Finland was bordered by the fiercely neutral Norway, and the stoically neutral Sweden. So, Finland fought on against the Russians, without aid, except for volunteer corps from the other countries (about 1,000 men from Norway, 8,000 from Sweden, 2,000-ish from Hungary and close to 1,000 from Denmark, a handful of Germans - my numbers might be entirely off, I'm not good at remembering them, but I know that the 8,000 from Sweden is probably right, because most sources put 8,000 as their low estimate. I have seen as high at 10,000 from Sweden. Still, when your enemy is fielding companies in the millions, these are not a lot of people), and the army supply warehouses on the Finnish-Swedish border became known for loosing their inventories whenever a Finn skied over and asked for a spare set of keys.

**Copenhagen** - At 4:15 AM on April 9th, 1940 Germany invaded Denmark both by the Jutland Peninsula and off-loading soldiers in Copenhagen. Norway was invaded simultaneously. Denmark capitulated within two hours.

**Messina** - The Allies decided to invade Italy in 1943, after winning North Africa, and seeing no hope for France in the offing. American, British, and Canadian forces took the Island of Sicily in two months, the Italians either switching sides, or getting captured. What Axis forces were left managed to retreat across to the mainland, mostly thanks to German leadership, and got ready for the real battle of Italy. At the end of the Allied invasion, American soldiers took about 75 POWs to the Biscari airfield, and shot them. This happened in two waves, the first in mid July, where 34 Italians and two Germans were killed, and the second in later July where 40 Italians were killed. When told about this, General Patton ordered the commander in the field to make it appear that the POWs were escaping, or had been killed by snipers from their own side (yes, the sniper thing wasn't that out of left field if you were a POW with important secrets in your head). His commander refused to do so.

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**Chapter 5: That Which Is Indomitable  
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**April 1863 – Berlin, Prussia (Berlin, Germany)**

Betrayal! Prussia fumed as he strode through his apartment, slamming doors in his wake. He was going to kill Lutz, and split him among the rest of the German States. Just see if he didn't!

Cooing and cheeping, the yellow bird fluttered anxiously around his head, as Prussia collapsed into the nearest chair. Twilight had fallen, but Gilbert didn't feel in the mood to turn on the gas jets.

Running his fingers through his hair he scowled at his knees. How could they do this to him? His own people! The most awesome people in the world, who gave him the fire and the flag and the eagle. For them he had fought and fought and defeated and _conquered_ to give them a nation that they could be proud of! He was a kingdom, mighty, triumphant. It had taken so long to get beyond being a landless army. Getting recognition from the other powers. And now his own people were taking that from him? Why?

He had worked so hard for the humans. He could have allowed himself to dissolve when Sweden and Denmark and Austria and Spain had ripped him to pieces. He could have given up when France humiliated him. He could have fallen back when Russia took his rights to Warsaw. He could have just _given up_ on multiple occasions. The rest of Europe still didn't see him for what he was sometimes [1]. He was the mother fucking AWESOME Prussian Empire, and how dare Lutz try to take that from him?

The bird settled on his shoulder, cheeping comfortingly. One pale finger rose to stroke the rounding of the head. The bird pushed back gently, forcing Prussia's finger against his own cheek. Gilbert smiled quietly.

"You should be asleep, Geilchen [2]."

The small puff of feathers cooed, resettling its tiny wings. Gilbert carefully cupped his hands around the small thing, feeling the rapid flutter of a tiny heart, as he removed the bird from his shoulder. Standing, his red eyes pierced the gloom, finding the large cage he had on the living room table. The bird was rarely in it—the cute thing was absolutely terrified of being alone without his geil Gilbert, which made the man smile—but everyone needed a place where they could be without being disturbed, so Gilbert had stolen the lovely wicker work and metal palace from Sweden a century or so ago, just as the table it rested upon had come from France at one point.

Placing the tired ball of feathers in the bottom of the cage so that he could choose his own perch, Gilbert noticed that the feed dish (a porcelain thing from that mysterious far east everyone was talking about that he had taken from Netherlands after the last one broke) was empty.

Picking up the shallow bowl, Prussia tutted. "No wonder you weren't asleep yet. Sorry, Vögelchen [3]."

He trotted for the kitchen. There was some old bread, and a few seeds with his bird's name on them. However, Gilbert stopped dead, upon reaching the small room. Pink eyes looked up from the table, and the white furred jaw worked furiously to gobble the last of the fat sausage that Gilbert had laid out to be a forgotten dinner that afternoon

"Hoi! Du verdammte Schweinehund [4]!" Gilbert yelled at the cat, throwing the first projectile to hand, the food dish, at the muscular feline's head.

With that irritating liquid grace that spoke of a disturbing lack of bones, the white thing ducked , ears flat to its skull. In the period of crashing ceramics exploding against the hard wall, the animal flowed from the wooden table. Apples that rested in a basket removed from London's markets soon pelted after the stray, who leaped for the open window, and wriggled away.

Defeated by a feline, Prussia gathered the remains of the food dish, trying not to swear in embarrassment. Only he and the cat had been witness to the small war, and as long as no one found out, then no harm done. Besides to the food dish. Damn. It had been perfect, too. He would have to find a reason to visit Netherlands, now, and the man was still a little sore him after the business with Willem and Wilhelmina [5]. It wasn't Prussia's fault for not realizing that Netherlands had been eagerly courting France at that point. Hell, no one in their right minds would have wanted Francis' fingers anywhere near them during his Revolution, and Prussia had always imagined that Netherlands was a steady fellow. He also was not at fault because the Hohenzollern women were more competent than any of other pansy ass Europeans [6]. In fact, why was that even a failing?

Opening a cupboard by the familiarity of feel in the dark, Prussia brought out a small saucer that he had found in Poland's cabinet ages ago. The blue and white circle pattern was dull, but it would have to do until he could get his hands on something better. From a wooden hutch he gathered the crumbs of his morning brötchen [7], as well as the seeds that he had scrapped from the top. Placing them on the little tray, he turned, only to see light flooding into the open door. The was only one person who could get in without knocking or physically breaking down the door.

Fucking Lutz. That was _it_. He would change the locks the very next day.

"Gilbert?" The giant _kid_ poked his head around the door. "I thought I saw you head in. Why are all the lights off?"

Prussia glared, and swept past his _little_ brother. "I didn't feel like wasting the time to turn them on. Anyway, gas works aren't natural. Now, get out!"

"Brother," the man sighed, trailing after the black dinner jacket, as Prussia stalked back to his living room. "What has you angry this time?"

Prussia managed to get the food dish installed in the cage before he turned to Ludwig, trembling as he tried to suppress the wild swooping of his temper. "You and your damned unification, that's what!"

Ludwig took a step back. "But, we agreed—you've always been telling me that I need to get control of the other duchies."

"_They_ belong to you! My lands do not! For all that bloody aristocrat likes to claim I'm part of his sad, dead little Holy Roman Empire, I'm my own land! It took me fucking centuries, Lutz, and you were strangling me with your needy little neediness but I did it, and I am Königriech Preußen, and FUCK YOU!" he leaned in, rising on his tiptoes, and shaking a finger under Lutz's nose. His teeth were creaking under the pressure of his clenched jaw. "Don't think I haven't heard you and that Bismark kid talking! He's my own damn countryman!"

A pregnant, hurt silence echoed around the two. Frowning, the taller proto-nation went to the gas main, giving the room some brightness. "I'm sorry, Gilbert," he told the wall after a moment, only making Prussia more incensed. He was not the wall! "We—We share so much, culturally, and you've organized things so sensibly. I want to borrow that, but you know Hesse and Saxony and the rest won't listen to any sort of reason unless someone strong, like you, forces it upon them through example."

"Well, Hesse and Saxony can go jump in a fucking lake," Prussia hissed. "I'm an _Empire_. They're pathetic little losers who can't even put on their big boy clothes!"

Ludwig turned back to Prussia, and Gilbert hesitated for a second as the Confederation glared at him. Jesus, did Ludwig even know how freaky that was? "You're an empire of what, Gilbert?"

"Of fucking awesome!"

Ludwig took three steps forward, forcing Prussia back into his own chair. "For Christ's sakes, Prussia, your Empire is deranged! Each time you show signs of weakness, you go out and invade another territory you think looks interesting, _ignoring_ things like land ties, lingual commonalities, cultural opinions—in short, everything that makes a _stable_ nation! You have pieces of my lands surrounded by your own, and pieces of your own surrounded by Austria, and other pieces surrounded by me! For a while bits of your land were in _Russia_ and _France_. Things can't _run_ like that [8]."

"I've done fine up 'til now!" Gilbert shot back, gripping the arms of the chair so hard that he was surprised that the wood did not break. "I don't need this! I've never needed you! I've had great men and women bolster me, and get me through the worst and I'll never need—,"

Ludwig leaned in, determination radiating from his eyes. "Bruder, da gibts keine Wahl! Ich müß der Deutsche Bund _sein_ [9]!"

"You can be that _without_ me!" They were forehead to forehead, and Gilbert noticed with passing embarrassment that he had spit a little with that last scream, although Ludwig apparently did not feel the wet gob on his cheek at the the moment.

His shoulders shook, and the chair creaked warningly, the shock running from the tall man's hands through the wooden armrests. When did little Lutz become so strong? "No, Gilbert, I can't! I look around and I can see that you've got everything that my people need. You can be a model to them."

"Me, be a fucking governing model? Make it up yourself, like the rest of us do," Gilbert sneered.

"You'd lead the new—,"

Prussia shot out of the chair, forcing Ludwig to step back. "Oh? I'd lead, would I? Is that what you're going to say to piss pants _Austria_ when you come to him?"

Pink rose in Ludwig's cheeks, and he studied the carpet for a few seconds. "I—Yes, I do want us to be together. But I'm realistic enough to know that it will never happen, with the way things currently stand. I can choose either a Northern unification, or a Southern unification. I chose you to lead, Gilbert, because I think you will do better for my people than Roderich [10]."

Gilbert, wanting time to think, and scream, and yell, and just not be in this conversation, crossed his arms. "What's your plan, then?"

"You'll allow—," Gilbert cut across the high words with a quick chop of his hand. Prussia was scared at how relieved Ludwig looked. He hadn't seen the boy's eyes shine like that since Francis had taken Ludwig into his house during that Napoleon mess. Had it really been _fifty_ years since Lutz had smiled? Really smiled, with his heart behind the matter?

Prussia kept his face flat, not wanting to betray that fear that he might give up a lot just to make it that much easier for Ludwig to relax his tired face. Damnit, when did he become such a wuss? It made him want to hit France in the face. He was still too damned _weak_ from that Rheinen Vorbund nonsense. Being a good older brother sucked once land got in the way. "I asked for your plan. I never said anything about giving up any of my rights or lands to you, Lutz. I'm just thinking, that's all. If you've got a good idea of how you want to do this, well, I'll think about it."

Ludwig's eyebrows creased over a small frown, but he nodded. "Well, first your leader would be our head of state. We'd be using most of your economic organization, and well, just cleaning the mess up between principalities, so that everything works out. It'll be a lot of hard work, but I'm ready to do it. I—I'm sorry, Prussia. I just, I need the land you hold to be mine, too. I can't explain it precisely, but—,"

Flipping his hand in Lutz's face (in a particularly Polish way, Gilbert internally cringed. He had to _expunge_ the Feliks-ness from his territories, or he was going to turn into a little tak-fairy [11]) the specter-like nation stopped his brother right there (like Hell he would ever allow anyone to be his overlord ever again). "Shut up, Lutz. Can't say I know _exactly_ what you're talking about, but there've been some lands I've just _had_ to have, before, so yeah, I get it, you can shut up now."

The taller of the two shuffled nervously. "So, you'll do it?"

"I'll _think_ about it," Prussia snapped, turning to the bird cage, just in case their previous shouting had distressed the occupant. "W-what's it like, exactly, being a confederated nation?"

Ludwig considered it for a moment. Prussia could practically hear the mental gears turning in the silence. Gilbert had taught his little brother all the fine arts, as part of being a well rounded man, but verbal production did not come to Lutz the way with just spilled in rivers for Prussia. Well, that was the price of not being awesome.

"Big," Ludwig managed at last. "And—empty? I used to think that it was the bits of my past that I couldn't remember but I knew were there. But now, I am almost certain that it was the disconnection from the land. As though I'm _supposed_ to be one shape, but I no longer fit that shape?"

Almost certain, huh? Prussia faced his brother once more, and clapped him on the shoulder awkwardly. "Well, alright, then. Just—Just remember," God, why did saying the proper big brother stuff _not_ get any easier with practice? "You're not _just_ a confederated nation. You're my little Lutz and I can still kick your ass!"

The mature, growing nation scowled. "You can be really annoying, when you want to be, you know that?"

"Awww, don't be such a sissy about it," Gilbert grinned. "I can't help that I'm so much better than you. Just be glad I don't introduce you as Lutzchen any more."

Putting a hand to his face, Ludwig massaged the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Denmark has never let me live that down, you know."

Gilbert would have chuckled, and started calling Ludwig all manner of insulting names, but he saw a bruise on Ludwig's wrist, as the nation's coat sleeve rode too far up his forearm. Knowing the people going out of their way to bruise Lutz at this point were few in number. "That's not his handiwork, is it?"

"Holstein is having a few problems with his selected heir," Ludwig admitted. "That's something else we're going to have to talk about. I have _got_ to get those duchies back. Both of them."

Prussia, remembering the last war, where he had awesomely _dominated_ until Austria the stick-in-the-mud had gotten in the way with the rest of the "Great European Empires" (forgetting, for some unfathomable reason, that he was one of them) [12], felt his face scrunch up in disgust. "England won't like that."

"We nearly won that last one," Ludwig muttered, he right hand clenching. "_Nearly_. We should have had those territories. They should have been mine, now."

Prussia let out a snort. "Yours? Are you kidding me? Schleswig is mine. I'll let you have Holstein, but that patch of Jutland is—well, I can see why he keeps it so close to his vital regions. The fisheries alone make me drool."

Ludwig's eyebrows clicked together as sharply as his shoes just before he was about to bow. A bright blue glance was cast at his brother. "I-I am not sure what you mean by that. And I do not think I want to know. Really, Bruder, I know you are a-a _familiar_ of Francis, but I do ask that you not be perverted about things."

Prussia rolled red eyes, before waving a despairing hand, and strolling back toward the kitchen. Maybe there was some of his dinner to be saved for a midnight snack, after all. "You need Schleswig and Holstein for unification, and I need to punch that bastard Denmark in the face for messing with you. I'll be as perverted as I like, Lutz. Go to bed. We have a war to plan in the morning, now don't we?"

He knew Lutz would let himself out. That was all that mattered. In the kitchen, Prussia put the small bowl with its vinegar and herb loaded cucumber salad under a plate, and sauntered to the bedroom. Amid practical blue sheets and white pillows, a furrier, purring white lump sprawled. Gilbert stood over it, hands on his hips, glaring down at the uncute, scarred vengeful beast. One pink eye slid open, and dared him to do something about it.

Slamming his window shut and locking it (the horses had already bolted, and honestly, he was certain that this cat could unlock things with its mind, but at least he wasn't going to _show_ that he was losing the feline-human war), the nation began to fumble with his clothes. "Alright, you can stay there tonight, but you'd better not hog the sheets." A pointless command, as the cat had already poured its large body all over the bed.

* * *

**November 1866 – Warsaw, Russia (Warsaw, Poland)**

They crashed towards the ground, Feliks internally bemoaning the fate of his lovely dress with the old velvet. Remaking this one was going to be a pain. He kicked Ivan in the stomach before the absolute behemoth could actually fall on top of him, and then rolled to one side. Russia caught himself on sturdy arms as Poland bounded upright, trembling in full out rage. "You _dare_ take Polish away from my streets?"

Ivan's smile lit his eyes with a savage, nasty joy. "You—a liar, a cheat, and a thief, with your eyes and your arrogance. _You_ turn my Toris against me. You turned my _little sister_ against me. I will _kill_ you, Польша [13]. It will be long and slow, but I _will_ kill you."

Furious, Feliks grasped his skirt, raising it hoop and all, and kicked Russia in the face. "I never _turned_ them against you. The totally weren't on your side to begin with!"

_He found Natalya sitting in front of the statue, her skirt spread out on the ground before her, gazing inscrutably up at the sweeping wings and sword. Poland coughed. She had been crying. Not the way Ukraine cried, a massive blubbering bawl that left her face red, eyes sticky, and heart pure. No, the youngest child of Kievanrus held only silent tears in her cold body, leaving no evidence of their passing besides a slug shiny trail. Feliks hated her inhuman freakishness._

_However, whatever had just happened had left a deranged young woman a wreck, and if it had been Ivan that had happened, Poland would show solidarity with the girl._

"_That's the champion of God," he began._

_Natalya nodded. "That is me. It is what I am supposed to be. His champion. His savior. His wife."_

_Poland rolled his eyes. Oh yes, Ivan had happened to her alright. The maniac had only broken Toris' hand, and shot Feliks in the lung, before beating him with a lead pipe, and who knew what he was doing to the White Russians, and his little sister would forgive—_

"_I _am_ his. He does not need to tell my people to act more like his," she brought her hand up to her face, and Feliks realized in horror that her pale skin was cracking, revealing earth brown. Revealing the soil where long ago Ruthenians had stood and said that they were a people, and this was to be their land_ [14]_. "He will _not_ make me disappear. I am to be his wife!"_

_Toris would have rushed over, and tried to bandage her hands. He would have words of encouragement, and soothing stories for her. Feliks just listened, getting a feel for the fire that was driving her. Allies were allies after all. Feliks needed them._

"_Well, then, Natalya, you should go out and show him, like yeah? Because he's under the impression that you need to, you know, return to the earth."_

Poland slid on the cobbles, and cursed his neat boots vehemently as he rounded the corner. Frost and horse shit remained in thick ridges on the street as he flew past dull eyed humans. C'mon, alley, get closer. The rumbling of Ivan's boots on the ground behind Feliks only sped him along the street. His breath caught harshly in his chest, and he was only too aware of where the cloth around the whalebone of his corset had worn bare. Well, one should be prepared to know the trials of one's citizens, even the female contingent.

There! He barreled sideways into the welcoming shade of the alley he had been looking for. An old awning from the days when this had been a storefront on a different street cast gloomy shadows over the narrow path. With a grateful sob the nation pulled more air into his lungs, listening. Winding on the wind, the crunch of military boots on stone, and soft chanting wove their way to Feliks' watchful ears. He shook out a muddy ruffle lining the base of his lovely skirt, holding onto his hat, as the rope for the awning swung dangerously close to his head.

Ivan's bulky shadow suddenly extinguished all light. Shoulders heaving as he grabbed air, the giant nation thrust himself between the tight buildings.

"Wolny Kościół, Rosja [15]!" Feliks yelled, yanking on the rope.

The support joist from the awning fell and with it came down the rocks and tons of gravel that Feliks and Toris had placed there this morning. Russia was buried in an instant, and Feliks began to laugh incredulously.

A hand shot from the huge brown pile, grabbing the once white ruffle on the red velvet. Oh, right, Russia was a machine. Poland grabbed his skirt, and, feeling for the seamstress who had spent so much of her time on it, ripped the cloth from the grasping hand. They would not allow this, not ever!

He took off, jumping the pile, and continuing down the street.

"_What do you think you're doing?" Feliks screamed, as he was pulled into a doorway by a familiarly cold grip._

_Ruby eyes sparkled. "I thought I'd warn you off the train station," Prussia purred. "I want to see a _proper_ fight between you and Russland."_

_Stamping on his hard boots produced no effect. Poland punched him in the chin. Prussia took the blow, but retained his eagle's killing grip. Ugh, this bastard needed to just grow up!_

"_You totally let him use your rail, like, didn't you?" the blonde hissed _[16]_._

_The Germanic country tried to step back, and shrug at the same time, a difficult feat in a recessed doorway that only allowed for one and a half men's space in any case. But the constraints of the physical world just gave the Empire the appearance of an artful lounger, his little smirk twitching around the corners of his mouth. "Gotta get rid of your dirty influence somehow, Polen. Don't worry," he tried to school his expression into something serious, but those rapacious eyes danced in foul joy, "you're helping with the unity of the Deutchesbund each time you die."_

_Suddenly Prussia switched his gaze, scowling at the street. Poland turned his head. France was buying a flower at a stall. Prussia stalked out of the door, his hat tipped aggressively. "Hoi, meinen Freund, was machst du heir _[17]_?"_

_France raised an elegant eyebrow. "You know I can't understand you, when you pretend to be uncouth, Gilbert. Speak in the language we all understand. Mine. Yes, madame, those lovely roses with the white tips. If I may, you are an excellent gardener. These are exquisite."_

_Poland slipped from the doorway. Hearing a train whistle, before the great locomotive began to chug west, he remembered Prussia's warning. Crouching low, he shoved himself into the earth, screaming a warning at the humans. _

_A flood of deep blue coats appeared at one end of the street. Producing a pistol from his waistband, Francis flashed Prussia a dazzling grin. "Well, if this is how it must be, mon ami."_

"_You'd better fucking believe it!" Prussia snapped gleefully, before gasping. _

_Blood flowered on his white waistcoat, only slight in advance of the steel edge that poked through. Francis laughed, as Feliks pulled out the short sword, and then the Russians were on them in a shower of delightful flower petals. Back to back the two blondes fought the uniformed, well armed soldiers. All around human screams of fury blended into song. _

_And then Feliks caught sight of their real opponent, beheading a child. "Rosja! Walka _mnie [18]_!"_

_Fire began licking over the buildings closest to the train station. Smiling at the flames, Ivan turned, cutting down one of his own men who prevented purple eyes meeting with turquoise._

"_Ладно__, Польша _[19]_."_

_Feliks felt Francis crumple wetly behind him over come by the sheer numbers of Russians. "Such a pity about the flowers, non?"_

"Like, what kept you?" Feliks burst into the tea parlor, leaving heavy gold tassels on the curtains that roped off the private parlor swinging.

Toris, the rope burns from, like, _months_ ago still visible under the loose collar of an ill-fitting shirt smiled nervously. "I was chained up in his basement, Feliks."

That nearly wiped the smile off his face, but like Hell was Feliks going to let anyone know that he was anything but confident and ready. He fixed Toris with a tight smile. "Aww, Lietuva, that's a silly excuse. C'mon! I pulled the dead fall on him. Time for stage three!"

"Stage three?" Toris asked, bewildered, his tea cup rattling a little on his saucer. "What did I say about making things up as you went along?"

Feliks grabbed his partner in rebellion's hand. "That it is totally the only way to get anything done!"

"I'm pretty certain my exact words were closer to 'don't invoke the Poland Rule, for the love of God!'" Liet called out, as Feliks began to pull him deeper into the tea house. Pssht. Kvailas Lietuva. Keeping his ears pricked, Feliks was happy that the only sounds he heard were the patrons, and Toris' shambling footsteps. "Alright, Feliks, what exactly is step three? My people are almost in place. Yours?"

Feliks felt his mouth harden, slightly. "We lost two of our people. Organizing this is going to take a long while on my end. But, that's like totes okay. We're already got some of the houses picked out. As for step three—,"

At the front of the tea house, the door exploded open in a shower of splinters. Above the human screams the chant was audible. Oh boy, Ivan was _angry_. Well, marvelously enough, angry people had a habit of making mistakes.

"Step three is we run!" and skirt and all, Feliks vaulted for the stairs, Toris trailing.

_He almost thought that it was the Commonwealth again. Sharp steel whirled from Natalya's hands, in a sweeping circle of indiscriminate death. Feliks laughed, clear and bell-like as he drove Russians before him, right into Toris' waiting arms. His hands sliding along the shaft of his scythe shifted the sickle hook to swing left, just as the humans ran right._

_Metal struck with meaty thunks. Metal slid free. A shot exploded past his ear. Catching the bullet with his throat, another peasant fell, his pain ripping into Feliks' heart. Poland had never felt this so keenly. So violently. The lower classes had always been Liet's people._

_Whumm. A curved reaper's blade snaked by his face, neatly decapitating the oncoming Russian. Natalya appeared next to him, her face clean as snow. "This is not the time for crying. We must show Russia that we belong. That we love him."_

_She killed a man rushing her without a qualm._

_In a murder of crows, Poland saw the shape of her mind. In the screams around her, he heard her crying. In the shine of her bright wheat-hair, and the cycle of the death in a simple farmer's implement, the Archangel visited her, filled her, and worked through her._

"_Circle them to Toris!" Feliks yelled to Natalya._

_Because there, in the village square, Lithuania held the day, side by side with his farmers. Not like Natalya, a vision of purity in slaughter, or Poland, crying as he realized his own lack of feeling for those flaming, raging, wonderful people he had held within his land for so many years._

_They ran, one goal in mind. The street was a gulf of shadows between fires. The blood trough of a butcher's stall. It opened around them, swallowed them in darkness, until the only light came from topaz bright eyes and alabaster hard skin of two nations without homes, farm implements the only weapons to hand. Their boots slammed into muddy earth as they barreled along, heedless of the humans that they met, yet wrapped together, thrumming in their veins all those lives burst into glory, and filled their heads, lending light to the land._

_Before them, the village square opened. Toris. Toris. Toris. The shadows turned with a slash of a hiltless eastern sword._

_Ivan._

"_TORIS!"_

_The shriek did nothing to reattach his head, lying at the grinning behemoth's booted feet, in rivers of human blood. Feliks drove forward, his scythe swinging high._

_Ting! Steel shivered into steel with a noise that did nothing to explain the strength of their meeting. But Ivan's blocking arm twisted, turning the blades with all his strength, and knocking Poland far from the tall body. Just as a second weapon scythed through the air, delicately slicing through the cloth and flesh of Russia's back in an explosion of red._

"_Brother, you will see it our way!" Natalya screamed through a river of tears._

_She was behind Ivan, ripping her weapon from his spine. She could not see the light that suddenly entered his face, purple crawling from his eyes, spreading in a pool of morning star brilliance. Feliks could, and for all the bitter liquid in his mouth, his throat was dry. He tried. God he tried. But Natalya could not hear his croaked warning, or did not want to, ready to give up the burden of Champion._

_Ivan sheathed his sword in black leather. The humans around them were silenced in a moment. Just a moment. As though they could feel the nations going beyond their man-shaped bounds. Russia pivoted on his little sister, the scabbard raised high. She looked up, meeting the devil in his face._

_Poland watched as Natalya was crushed, her head split open, disgorging its contents to the world. Again and again and again and again and again and again. The scabbard slammed down on her loving smile._

Poland climbed out from an upper garret, Toris sliding gracefully after him, balancing carefully on rounded terracotta tile. Poland's boots skittered, their slight heels planning to send him to the street below, if not for the warping and buckling of the roof. As he turned, and hiked to the high gable, Toris began to chuckle.

"Like, what has possessed you?" Feliks called over his shoulder, trying to rearrange the tatter tasseled shawl protecting the beading on his morning jacket.

Lithuania's soft shoes, flexible for mountain climbing, or burglary—of course, Toris would be smart enough to come prepared, unlike Feliks' lovely, but impractical city walking shoes—padded over the tile. If they didn't want to give themselves away, they would have to tread very lightly until they could cross to a row of houses not connected to each other. They had to get away without getting caught, and without Feliks' people, Poland had no idea what to do next. He had to help Toris _somehow_. Somehow. Feliks still had his schools, he still had the church. Toris had been stripped almost to nothing, and today's plan was coming apart at the seams.

Odd. You totally wouldn't think that _anything_ could go wrong with a plan like 'making Russia so angry that he could not notice your real objectives.'

"Oh, just thinking about how a century ago you would have been so offended by the lack of upkeep on the roofs in your capital city," Toris chuckled, in response to a question posed, like, last month.

Geeze, he never could keep up, Poland thought fondly as he carefully placed his feet. "Well, you know how circumstances can end up compleeetely changing your over-all perspective," he stuck his arms out for balance as the breeze tugged unpleasantly at his skirts. "Like, note, Toris, I totally need to change the fashions to be better for roof walking, yeah?"

He heard a smothered laugh, and turned his head slightly to see Lithuania hiding his grin in his sleeve. Wanting more of that laugh, he patted the up sweep of curls hiding under his tilted hat. "I'm like, a genius, am I not?"

"Totally," Toris agreed seriously, as he should, balancing for a moment on the thin ridge, where another building leaned drunkenly against their own to cut off the alley below. The tiles looked rotten, but once on this building they could start putting streets and neighborhoods between them and Russia. Fast as they could run.

On the other hand, those tiles looked really gray green, and chipped. Poland looked at his partner. "Like, other side of the dead roof, and then we lay low for a few seconds. I need to get my second wind in order to be totally fantabulous."

They clambered and scrambled to the perpendicular roof, which at its apex was half a story higher than the eaves of their current walkway. The trek to the other side of the lane and the jump to the next roof was nothing more than five minutes of heart stopping creaking and groaning. But they made it, sliding flat on the side furthest from the tea house.

Pale blue skies fusing to white and gray as clouds mixed without a care stretched out far above them. Poland looked up, seeing some birds flying free above the city. "Ever think that everything would be solved if we could just fly away? I mean, lose connection to the earth and just be, y'know, up there."

Toris sighed. His exasperation was only a few minutes from becoming a full raging scream. "_Polska_, if we could do that, we'd just fight it out up there. This is the way life _is_. And I don't see any end to it."

Feliks risked a peek at the kind face. Lithuania was watching the sky, his expression drawn in a frown, and his hand at his neck. The blond returned to looking at that wide open sky, which was the wide open sky of their youth, and would still be the wide open sky in a hundred years. Nothing could change that. Nothing.

"There will be, Liet. We'll get out of this, you'll see!"

Silence. Wanting to find the other's warm hand and grab it, Poland tried to shift, only to discover that he was stuck on some tiling. Lithuania cleared his throat. "He's killing our people. _Your_ people, Feliks. My people. Natalya's people. He's eliminated my language and tried to replace it with his own. He's just trying to kill your Polish. He burned the faith from Natalya. What do you think we'll be if we get out of this?"

If. Poland wanted to sneer. If. If. If. No! Screw Ivan! The scarf wearing maniac was not going to tear them down! He was not going to _win_. Poland would never truly be beaten. And if he had to rig Liet's leg with pulley's and rope in order to get him to kick Ivan back, well, that was how he was going to do it.

"Kvailas Lietuva. We'll be ourselves. I know that my printers were totes uncool and got caught the other day, but there's gotta be a way to save your words."

Lithuania moaned slightly, covering his eyes with the hand that been at his neck. "There is. It was my back up plan—but you're not going to like it, Lenkija."

"Oh?" Poland propped himself up by one elbow as he tried to yank the wide sleeve of his dress free from the broken pottery. "Like what is it?"

Through a crack in the fingers, Liet's green eyes swiveled in his direction. "_Really_ not like it, Feliks. There are a lot of my people in the old fief, and it's far enough east to get smugglers in as far as Ivan's house. All I need is the cooperation of the official land—,"

Poland ripped his sleeve from the roof. "NO! Like, seriously, Liet, are you _crazy_?"

"It's no weirder than the Ottoman Empire treating you as though you're still a landed country [20]," Lithuania replied.

Poland was ready to spit fire. "Yes, it totally is! Sadiq and I share a deep faith—okay, massively different faiths, but we share a deep _belief _in the evidence of things unseen, if you like—and we both _hate_ Russia."

Now Toris took the hand away from his face. His smile was wry. "Oh, Feliks. Oh Feliks, have you ever—do you ever think about things from a perspective other than your own?"

"Totes no," Feliks crossed his arms, pouting. "It give me a major headache."

With a worrying creak of tiles and wood, Lithuania sat up as well. "Please, Feliks. Try to be reasonable? He definitely has the printers, and for all he and Russia are allies, it's Prūsija [21]. When is he going to turn up the chance to spit in anybody's tea? Especially Ivan's."

Feliks felt himself growing red. "He used to use you as a pin cushion for his arrows!"

"You asked him to," Liet's calm about that made something smolder uncomfortably inside Poland's cheeks.

"I didn't know you, then! He can't be trusted, Liet!"

A snort. Liet pressed his hand over his mouth, trying to suppress his laughter, tears forming on his eyelashes. "Seriously? Seriously Lenkija?" his gasping for air sounded suspiciously like sobs. "You've been partitioned three times. We watched Ivan's people destroy Natalya. We've seen churches burn. How can you even begin to imagine that trust exists in this day and age?"

Feliks was not hearing this. He absolutely was _not_. This was not Liet. This was some simulacrum, a homunculus done up to look like his old partner. Liet was strong, and brave, and could exist on his own. He was the kindest, most trusting nation ever born from the ground and the promise of a people. He was the heart of the earth, ripened grains, sweat, honesty, both strange and so normal that it didn't matter who you were, or how you felt, he wanted to be your friend.

"I can, and I _do_," Poland whispered fiercely. "We'll win free of this, and you'll get your language back on your farms, and my streets!"

That set Liet's shoulders shaking. "I'm not Finland, Polska, with land of my own. I'm not you, with free reign in Galacia, and a grudging allowance in Berlin. I live in _his_ house. Do you understand? Natalya _forgot_ almost all of her dialects. Her language is almost gone. I'm trying to remember her human tongue, but it's very difficult to keep one illicit language alive in Ivan's house, much less two. I need the books. Please, I already set up a meeting for—,"

Poland stared. "You _invited_ him—,"

"To Warsawa," Lithuania nodded, his mouth twitching. "When you put it like that, it does sound kind of ironic. But, Lenkija, I'm on my last thread. I was just going to make something up and give him a square meal, if your people made it, but I guess it's a good thing that I had a back up plan, huh?"

That was Liet to the core. Thinking ahead, and ready for the worst. It made Feliks smile, even if he did not like the now inevitable solution. He focused on the wandering birds in the sky imagining the feeling of wings propelling his body aloft.

Shouts went up from the street below, the noise dragging the nation back to earth. Lithuania had been listening this whole time, because he dragged Poland flat by his elegant sleeves. "Rusai [22]."

"Kolkolkol. Я видел, как ты, Полвша! Не помочь ему, Литва [23]!"

Poland quirked a sarcastic eyebrow at his partner. "Rosja. I plan on totally not understanding that. Gotta new plan. You run—,"

Toris shook his head, biting his lip. "I know how to delay him. _You_ run. I told Prussia to meet me at the _Wheat Sheaf_. Even if he doesn't remember where that is, you tend to be really good at running into people you don't like."

Poland felt his mouth stretch into a smile that strained at the edges to actually curl. He clapped Lithuania on the free shoulder. "Like, let's do this."

Lithuania shook his head with a sigh. "So much for sticking to plan. I'm counting on you, Feliks."

He rose with the agility of a cat, and toppled theatrically from the roof, only saved from multi-storied death by grabbing the leaden lip of the gutter. Cries in Russian echoed in the street below. Poland bounded onto his feet, red and black skirt swinging from its hoops. Casting a glance at the clinging fingers, his smile became quiet. "Use Lenkija, Toris. If you can keep that, you can't forget the rest. I won't allow it, right?"

"_Go_, will you?"

Once again, Poland took to his (amazingly fashionable) heels, clattering away across the rooftops and into an endless blue sky.

_Russian he pretended not to understand poured into his ear. Poland, stuck in the watching crowd, had never felt so helpless. He tugged at the ropes once more, causing the humans around him to laugh._

"_You're a monster, Ivan!" he spat, twisting his arms futilely._

_From a scaffold another body jerked. Swung. Lived. Suffocated. Russia's governor was hanging two men to a crossbeam. The very first ones the portly lame human had strung up with his own two hands._

_Kerosene soaked the breeze. Poland managed to wrench his head around. They—Oh God, not the church! Poland's sudden lunge forward jiggled the stake to which he had been bound. Dried branches were being placed at the base of the walls. "That one isn't even mine, you bastard!" Feliks screamed. "It's Natalya's! She's your own sister!"_

_The bear paw of a fist slammed into his nose. Russia grabbed his hair, twisting it cruelly around his fingers, as he drew Poland's head up to his eye level. "You twisted her! Your church and your tricks and your perversions!"_

_Feliks looked away from the maddened expression in scorn. "And she wants to be your savior."_

"_I must save her first, да."_

_The human over seeing it all, that murderous wieszatiel_ [24]_, crooked a finger. "Мало земли императорской России, не говорить сним," addressing the blue coated soldiers with a click of his gloved fingers, the human stared right past the two nations. "Привести последние повстанцев _[25]_."_

_Feliks felt the skin of his wrists tear as he wrenched against the bindings. Every breath through his bleeding nose burned with the fury of something that refused to heal as instantly as it should. Suddenly Russia, the fearsome guard against a fallen nation's resistance, did a sterling impression of a tree captured in the moment when its roots are severed from the trunk, but it has not yet chosen the direction in which it will fall._

_The two people being lead to the final gallows tree were not people. No. Of course not. Feliks began to laugh. His laughter rang out over the village. It echoed in gutted, empty huts. It rang from the sides of the church. It wrapped around dying bodies and bloated faces. Toris, a clean white scar wrapping around his neck did not look up at the noise, or the weight of the thick rope that fell over his shoulders. Natalya twitched as the human hands guided her into place, back to back with Lithuania._

"_Take them back to the prison!" Russia yelled, not using the human language he forced on them all. _

_His words shivered through bones. Rippled in flesh and blood. The humans halted for a moment. Feliks' laughter guttered and died with a sob like rain on already wet wood. Silence engulfed the humans. Something was wrong. Oh, something was very wrong. Eyes all swiveled to their lord. The governor. Not Russia. Not the land. Not the nation._

_Feliks had seen that happen before. Once they had looked to Litwa for confirmation of Poland's orders. But never would humans look to other humans when the nation was right before them. Except for now. Ivan shivered. His flesh physically crawled for a moment, purple engulfing his eyes once more, as his pupil shrunk to a horrifying pinprick._

_A gloved hand moved. "Это для вас, России _[26]_," the man lied through his mustache._

_Ivan was transformed. He smiled, his face lighting like a young boy's asking for sweets. "See? Nothing bad will happen to them," Russia nodded. "My people are fixing them."_

_The ropes hoisted higher. Men lifted Lithuania into the air, clinging to his knees. Feliks watched, unable to say anything, as Natalya, small, fragile, her head swathed in bandages, rose in the same manner. Then her eyes, slate stones of things, looked straight at the prisoner and his guard. "Brother."_

_Another electric moment, time and thoughts crackling like frozen lightning, swished between the nations. The humans let go. Russia broke into a run toward the gallows. From the church came a roar. Thick doors shot off the building with bone crushing swiftness as fire in bursting grandeur piled from the hollow tomb of the building. Poland looked over his shoulder, as the first one nearly ripped his broken nose from his face._

_Although it was invisible among the white and orange laughter of the element, he imagined that he could see the stone angel he had found the lady of the White Russians examining last year. The fires wreathed the champion of God, cracking his long blade, blackening the stony white wings, until finally the wooden nook that had stored the great angel crumbled, cracked, and disintegrated. In his mind, Feliks watched an angel fall._

_In reality, he trained his eyes on the square, where Russia had been crushed by one of those doors, while the other had done the slowly asphyxiating, bent-necked humans a final mercy. Natalya's neck had snapped properly as she fell, and her lifeless body dangled there, glaze eyes accusing the world. Toris jerked and twitched, still dying, ready to swell up purple as the air slowly was starved from his face. It was quicker to drown._

_The Russian governor, who was supposed to be helping Lithuania administer his land, looked at the hanging nations, the crushed Empire, and captured Poland with cold unsympathetic eyes. Looking to some ghastly boyish lieutenant, the old man nodded at the nations. "Дьявол никогда не умирает _[27]_."_

He honestly never was going to get out of Poland's life, was he? "Behind you, Prusy. And take the salt cellar from your pocket," Feliks slid around the tavern bench, shaking the dust from his skirt. He was not going to sit—that would have required more bench maneuvering than he wanted to deal with, and Poland had no intention of taking his supper with the man.

The white haired man, still wearing his great coat, the tight sleeves in danger of being dipped in his soup as he negligently handled his spoon, started indolently at his accuser. "What the Hell are you doing here, Polen?"

The blond snorted, rolling his eyes. God, really? "This _is_ Warsawa, Prusy. I never really left. I should ask what you're doing here, but I already know."

Prussia shrugged indolently, stretching out his legs to take up far more room under the table than was necessary. "Well, you know I never can resist a good gloat at your expense."

Poland leaned forward until he could rest his fists on the table. "Prikąsk liežuvį, Prūsija [28]. I'm not here to play games."

The white faced man whistled. "You just spoke some kind of magic, Polen. How long has it been since you last used that?"

"Oh, some time before 1793," the reply was delivered with a flippant pop of his hip, a pose which did not work well in the current fashion, and of course Poland's persecutor made certain to comment.

"You look like a street walker, Królowa. Or should I say Karalienė [29]? So, how much?" despite the bad taste of the comment, Prussia was losing his near perpetual smirk in favor of a serious, business-like face. "Or rather, why did Lithuania set the two of us up?"

Poland scowled. "You _know_ what Russia's doing to us."

Prussia waved his spoon, letting it trail soup in the air. "Sure. We get together and trade tips. Russia's got some crazy idea that he can make us actually die if we remove the last vestiges of our culture from the humans and absorb the rest."

"You say that as though you don't want it to be true," Feliks fixed him with a hard stare.

Prussia snorted, working the smooth ancient wood grains on the table with gloved fingers. "It _isn't_ true. The only way we can die is if _we_ want it to happen. Stands to reason. Earth may be blown away, the people may have forgotten everything that you were and did, but there's still some kind of soul there, and until you snuff it out, nothing and no one can take life from you. But, eh, I'll let Russland keep thinking whatever he likes. Long as it keeps the bastard busy."

Feliks listened to the speech, wishing that he had sat down, if only so he could put his chin on an elbow supported fist. Duuuuuuull, Prusy, as always. "Yeah, yeah. Like, look, Prusy, I need you to supply books. In the Latin alphabet. In Liet's language. Either do it, or this is going to be a done conversation, like, get it?"

Leaning back on the bench once more, Prussia dropped the spoon in the dish, and reached into the interior of his great coat. Feliks, sensing a revolver had the soup bowl ready to smash down on the hand, but the black gloves returned bearing a book. Poland could just make out "Giesmės" [30] on the cover before Prussia tossed the small volume in cheap cardboard across the table.

Prussia made one of his little sneezy noises in the back of his throat as Poland caught the book clumsily. "You're lucky I fucking hate Cyrillic, and like Toris, Królowa. I wouldn't do this otherwise. Now, you run back, and get Lithuania, who can actually pull together a plan on occasion. He wants more of that, _he's_ going to have to arrange it. I like the idea of hoodwinking tubguts, but it's not my ass on the line, you got me?"

Feliks was too busy staring at the book in astonishment. Prussia had one of these made up before even coming down here? It might have been just to annoy Russia, should the Empire see the smaller nation, but it was not exactly reading material for the train. On the other hand, it was exactly the kind of gift Prussia would give someone for inviting him over. Sharp, liable to get them in trouble, but too useful to throw away. A gift, in short, picked with malice aforethought, and only the mother of God knew what ahinterthought.

"Why are you like this, Gilbert? There are only, like, sixteen less complicated ways to get your point across," Poland looked up, just as the table rocked on uneven trestles, bowing under the weight of the unrecognized Empire getting to his feet.

His shoulders hunched, and Feliks got the impression of a great bird of some sort ruffling its wings. Prussia was too in love with his own standard. "Like what, Polen?"

The cheap and precious volume of paper slapped against Poland's palm. "Like _this_. Duh. You forbid my people their language in your streets, keep them from any job better than rag man and then you turn around, and hand Toris something like this. It's not like Russia, who, like, is loop-di-loo, and believes that we all love him or are working against him by the way the wind blows, or whatever."

A cackle rose in Prussia's throat. "I like messing with the less fortunate, I guess. What do you care, Polen?"

"Because you've always been totally _weird_, and I can't have Liet relying on someone who is unreliably traitorous," Feliks snapped.

Prussia drew himself to his impressive height. His upper lip lifted in an aristocratic sneer that he must have stolen, like the salt cellar, from Austria. His hand went to his hips, but he did not shove one forward into the argument. "Because you can't have, oh, of course, like, how foolish of me," he tried to make those blood pooled eyes wide and bat them in typical Poland mockery, "anything bad happening to precious Liet. My God and your God, Polen, why wouldn't I do this? Toris is a man I can respect. He is made of iron, and isn't above _fighting_ for what he wants. Real fighting. Dirty guts, heart and soul fighting.

"You cling to him like a security blanket. You—I can't stand you. Look at yourself, tarted up like a fashionable whore, with the spine of an over-cooked Italian noodle. I can't imagine how any man could _stand_ being in your presence without the crawling need to go take a shower just in case whatever you have is catching. You stand there, being pretty and useless, as your people slowly choke and die. It's always been this way, though, hasn't it? You find something pretty or shiny, and then that's all that matters, while people like Lithuania, and yes, me—remember the days I was your vassal state?—ran around saving your dozy kitten ass. Why shouldn't I oppress the Polish?"

Forgetting that Russia probably still remembered the morning's antics, and would be _looking_ for Poland, Feliks over turned the table. The startling crash would have been more satisfying if it had caught Prussia underneath it, but light-footed as always he had hopped to safety. The ugly face was shining with eager excitement.

Placing his elegant heels with fierce determination, Poland strode over the wreck he had caused. "You wanna fight, you pissy little nothing of an army that can't even convert a damn pagan tribe by force without help from the big boys? What have you actually accomplished in your life, huh? Sponging off the rest of us like a giant tick. You failed in your mission to the Holy Roman Empire, and you failed in your loyalty to me, and you failed to become anything worth noticing in either Eastern or Western Europe, you failed to do everything you've set your aspirations to, and you've done it by stabbing _everyone_ who could have helped you in the back."

"I'm the greatest fucking Empire the world will ever see," Prussia snarled, reaching out to shove Poland away from him, but Poland just yielded one side, forcing Prussia into an unbalanced slant across his body. "I made Austria _grovel_ before me. I fought off all the powers of Europe! I partitioned you, the great Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth!"

Felicks, feeling cold fury, stuck an elbow in his side. "Yes, and didn't you need big brother Austria for that?"

"Not the _second_ time," Prussia's barb worked like a double edged sword always did in the hands of an angry novice. His face lost what little color there was, and then he laughed nastily. "_Or_ the third time—he just wanted a piece of the pie. Seems like he's got a thing for nations I'm done with. I dare you to find me some guilt. I dare it. I'd be happy to rip you apart for a fourth time, too, if it was possible. Hell, I would almost give you your land back just to snatch it from you again, you little shit."

The humans occupying the poor tavern, Feliks was dimly aware, were staring. They had been since the table went over, but now their gazes were shifting, and with their shifting attention, Poland shifted, too.

Prussia, tense, still looking for a fight, grimaced. "Russland?"

Over his shoulder, Feliks saw long angel wheat hair. "His messenger. Like, hate to dash, but—,"

"Totes gotta fly if you want to actually be competent about something for once," Prussia cackled. "Just remember: I won, and you lost. 'Twas ever thus, because I am—"

"A blow hard." Gritting his teeth, Feliks looked towards the door, and then eyed the back room. Natalya brought a small dagger to her lips, where scars still showed in white spider line cracks.

Prussia smirked, turning slowly to look at the messenger. "I was going to say 'awesome.' You going to run, or not?"

"I've been running all day," Feliks replied lightly, ready to meet the executioner with a joke. "I'm thinking about it. Tell you what: if I rip out your spine, and beat her to death with it, will you just acknowledge that you're a worthless piece of tripe, and limp off home?"

Gilbert eyed the back door. "I'd counter by saying I'm worth my name. Something you can't even claim, as there is no more Polska, now is there? The side door looks like your best bet."

"Thanks, I had that one figured out," Feliks rolled his eyes. "We'll totes have to continue this tea break in Berlin."

Prussia shuddered slightly at that idea. "Cabaret?"

Nodding decisively, Feliks tensed himself to run. "Oh, how well you know me."

He shot for the door, clutching Toris' book to his chest. Behind him, his heart lifted, as he heard Prussia intercept the broken doll thing that had once fought at his side.

"Guten Abend, Fraulein. Ich heiße Norddeutscher Bund. Uuf! Nicht geil, liebchen! Ich mag meinen Hände [31]."

A crash of someone hitting a table with their full weight followed Poland out of the building.

* * *

**June 1904 – Helsinki, Finland**

It started with a newspaper. Finland had stopped by the fiddly wrought iron balustrade, and spread his paper out to catch the strong light from the windows visible in the stairwell. Perhaps there had been motive in this. A protest. The Governor was due to meet with the senate, and Tino wanted a word with the human. He was sorry to ambush the man like this, without an appointment, but the Russian was remarkably recalcitrant when it came to meeting Finland. He almost always was invariably out when Tino called during business hours, or in meetings or busy.

The Grand Duchy had the unsettled feeling that the Russians did not regard nations as they should. Oh, it was normal for humans to be less than civil to the representative of a people that the human did not respect or like very much, but even Sweden was treated with sort of deference by Danes once upon a time. Poles, Estonians, Lithuanians, Ukrainians, and various sundry other humans all treated him very well as Tino made his bi-annual trips to Moscow and back. Indeed, only a generation ago, Russians, too, had always made him feel as though he was a very important person. Not as important as their own nation, of course, but important for his difference.

Now, though. Now something was going wrong. Oh, all the Baltics told him that something had been wrong with Ivan for centuries, and Tino would certainly believe it. But whatever play was going on in Russia's head while the world whirled to a different tune, Tino could negotiate it. He could handle Russia (he hoped. He thought so anyway. The knife's edge dance had been getting harder and sharper as of late).

Maybe it was nationalism. Ever since the wars more and more humans had become _aware_ of the personifications. Not as powers they saw on the battle fields or striding through the halls of government, looking over the shoulders of men and treaties, bound by words and actions, but an awareness of nations that never turned off, even in sleep. His liberation was in those wonderful men and women who knew who they were, and knew who he was, and happily introduced themselves to him. It was glorious, but what if people were growing jaded and started believing that there was nothing to nations? What happened then?

Something like this, perhaps, where someone who was supposed to be working with him refused to acknowledge his presence.

That made Finland just a tiny bit angry. He was being very good. Very good for someone who had been ripped away from—well, he was treating Ivan with a respect that Russia commanded as thanks for independence. He was being _nice_. But if Ivan was going to try the things he had in the dependent areas of his Empire, well, Finland would have a thing or two to say, and no mistake.

That was why he was reading a Finnish language newspaper right here, in the halls of a government awkwardly addressing each other in Russian. Finland would admit he nudged his men just a bit, making them forget, or sometimes defiantly ignore the edicts about business language as opposed to private language.

Some Finns were walking up the staircase in a soberly conversing bunch right now, and without really thinking, they called him "Suomen suuriruhtinaskunta," as they made their passing greetings. One man even stopped long enough to bow shortly. Tino smiled, nodded, and remembered every name in an easy patter of words.

Soon the Diet would be gaveled into session. He turned another page, reading about a storm that had done a lot of damage to the coast of Karjala [32]. The article made it sound a lot worse than when he had asked her about it. Maybe he should ask her again. She was always telling him not to worry in the same way he would tell others not to worry. Maybe Ukraine would help get a straight answer out of her. Ukraine and Russia both had a soft spot for the girl (and who could blame them?), and Ukraine would probably enjoy a day of dealing with a problem that was solvable.

Firm feet sounded below him. Peering down he saw a warm brown hat, and the flaring wings of a coat. The governor. A few soldiers with Russian shoulder decorations followed the man. Guards, probably. A floor above Finland, someone else began a hurried rush down the stairs. A clerk who had forgotten someone's papers, probably.

Not wanting to be seen until there was no avoiding him, Tino leaned nonchalantly against the tall white column supporting the fakely Gothic arches of the ceiling. Tino looked up at the building fondly. He had seen _Gothic_ before. This was just a poorly colored romanticism. Ah, humans, trying to recapture the glory of days past. Sometimes it was not just humans, either, he added to himself wryly, listening for the Russian footfalls. Speaking of provinces, he really should talk to—the Russian reached the red carpet of the landing just as a young man exploded down the stairs.

Both humans stopped. Stared. And the young Finn, Tino could feel the waves of human belief washing from him, raised his hand. A gun was there. Finland tried to move, shout, do something, convince everyone—

The first shot rebounded from a shining starburst of a medal.

—but, no that was not right, this man was a brutal tyrant, who had sent Finns to Siberia, banned the words that Tino read in the paper, ignored the laws that had come from Sweden, abolished Tino's army—

The second shot zipped into the wall, chipping a brass button as it was deflected.

—he deserved it.

As Tino nodded at his countryman, the third shot boomed from the revolver. Leaden, the bullet smashed into Bobrikov's belt buckle, worming into his guts.

The wet gasp of a man staggering to his doom broke the spell. But not fast enough. Finland felt the intention before the soldiers from the first floor could make it up the steps. _This will be as painless as I can make it_. One. Two.

The man, boy, really, fell into the echoes of thundering gunshots, bleeding from the heart, no longer breathing.

Russians swarmed their fallen governor. Within five minutes a carriage had been summoned. The assassin's head slammed down each step as they dragged him away by the heels. Finland sat on the top of the stairs watching everything. There were horrified whispers, shouts, and accusations. The Finns all looked properly guilty. Investigative teams produced a heartfelt note from a patriot undertaking a disgraceful act because common decency had been removed from the administration of the Grand Duchy, and the tsar needed to be made aware somehow. It was all appropriate. There was nothing to suspect. Every so often, Suomi caught human eyes, and silently a smile would pass between them. Nothing that any Russian could catch, or understand, but it was enough.

At last, the commotion died down. Tino pulled himself to his feet, and trotted down the staircase. They should put up a plaque or something. Ivan was probably going to have words, lots of them. But even so, just a small note. Something to say that a man had stood here, in the grip of something more than subservience and decided that he knew what was best for the direction of Finland. Maybe he would be right, maybe he would be wrong. But he had made the decision. Tino could only applaud that.

He threw open the doors of his cheery yellow palace with no king. Taking a breath of brilliant bright air that crackled in his veins Finland set on a course for the hospital, and strode down his streets. He should be there, when Russia came. There, and not in his government buildings right next to the blood stains. There might still be hope of continued balance on that edge he had chosen.

But it there was not, he frowned slightly. If he failed, and there was only one side or the other to fall from, then meeting Venäjä at a _hospital_ with humans around would not be the best choice. The cemetery. Even if it was disrespectful to the dead, Tino would always be more concerned about the living. Also, if worst came to worse, the wall running along the back was in bad repair, and he could surely tear an iron pole from the crumbling mortar, and use it to defend himself.

Swallowing—no one ever said that it was easy to face the fact that he might be destroying everything that his people had worked for over these years—the short man switched his course. Unfortunately, Russia was always faster than people gave him credit for. The shadow of the scarf fell over Tino as he was inspecting the land prepared for pauper's graves.

"He will be buried there," Venäjä's voice rumbled all through the rich grass covered earth, sounding horse.

Finland turned to look into the staring eyes. "V-Ve-Russia! You surprised me."

The simple face broke into a wide curled grin that refused to meet dull amethyst eyes. "Да. I do that often. I am a surprising force. Much like a kitten, да? You get a new kitten, and turn around, and then when you come back, your sister's vase is smashed, and you no longer have a kitten, you have a cat, and this is a different animal, is it not? Very surprising."

So that was the game. Tino frowned. "The essence of the animal is the same, Russia, whatever age it is."

Lank hair the muted beige of dying wheat fell across the eyes as the massive nation nodded slowly. "And now the owner must confront the nature of the cat. Which always has been to smash precious things, I believe. I gave you so much, Kitten. _This_ is how you repay me?"

"Your human was doing very—,"

"He was _mine_ and I should have dealt with him!" Ivan's hands had balled into fists, and Tino stood ready to deflect the blows. "I am your lord! You owe loyalty to me for the kindness I have given you! Why do you do this? It hurts me, Tino!"

Finland bit the inside of his cheek to keep his thoughts in check. "I _had_ to, Russia. You were _not_ listening to me. Your governor took my language from official documents."

Rough blue cloth crinkled awkwardly, as Ivan tried to shrug away the accusation. "It must happen all over the Empire, Kitten. I will not have another Crimea."

That hardened Finland. He glowered. "Ei, Ivan, en huoli kieltäsi [33]! I have spoken like this since there were songs and old gods, and you will not take this from me! Empires, and land may move and shift, but the words that make and bind me will not be torn away! Nor will my men be told to jaunt all over your Empire! I do not _want_ to be responsible for gutting Eesti [34], or hurting the people in your house. The enemies who try to invade from the Baltic, _fine_. They are enemies. Not us. Not the people who look to you for protection! This is not how _good_ people conduct their affairs!"

Ivan stepped back on the last sentence. Finland could not tell what was going on, as expressions crawled and writhed all over that expansive face. He was not going to wait. He had to press the advantage, while Russia was too pole-axed to be angry.

"Your man sent my humans to Siberia! Were those your orders, Ivan? Were they?"

Ivan blinked. "I-I-I only said to do what he thought—What he thought best. To use all force necessary."

Finland's expression did not lose one jot of its steely anger. "You want to know why I betrayed you, России? He had to _die_. Sometimes that has to happen. It's not nice, and I know his family is very unhappy with me, but sometimes these things have to be done, if change is to happen."

That really surprised Russia. "Change?" the word rolled from his mouth as though his tongue was tasting it, rather than forming the sounds. "What need is there for change? We are happy. We will be happy."

"I did what I had to, Russia."

They stood silently, looking down at the unmarked graves. Soon there would be a new one there, holding the bones of someone who had killed for Finland. Nothing new there, but Tino did feel a flutter of pride and regret in his chest. A man who took his own life, and addressed an Emperor in his note, claiming patriotism to an empire that he fought. That took some kind of grim determination. Sisu [35]. Yeah.

At length, the disturbed, brooding shadow left Finland's side, allowing that the air had grown slightly cooler. There were not that many hours of night, this close to the solstice. But there were enough for the sun to sink, to be swallowed by the horizon, and Tino to realize that he was alive this day. Really, truly alive, and Russia was not going to attack. For now, anyway. The principality within the Empire would sleep facing east, because if change did come, that would mean that, eventually, the time to rid himself of the "Grand Duchy" nonsense would be upon Finland. Suomi. Simple. Plain.

He could feel everything as he stood, looking into the great bowl of the black sky, waiting for that shivering moment when midnight poised on the edge between one day and the next.

Finland smiled to himself. A century ago he would have turned to his right and an mentioned something about how nice it was that a young man and the girl he loved could still go on a long romantic walk, even when they lived under the arm of a law that was not their own, in a land that should have been their own. It made you happy, it really did, knowing that no matter how low a human could get, there was still room out there for two people to be in love, hold hands, and walk down a street. If the humans could do it, that meant that there was hope for nations, correct?

Only it was not the same, and there was no one to turn to, smile at, and encourage into a display of affection. Just the stars, picked out in velvet, whirling merrily in their predestined paths. The soft blond wondered where his path would take him next, because it was not predestined, and he had the shock of warm blood on his hands, the sorrow of an unmarked grave, the death of a hero to understand and cope with.

The world slipped into the new day, taking Finland with it.

* * *

**October 1905 – Christiania, Norway (Oslo, Norway)**

The hours since waking had been filled with terse paperwork, a strained smile, as humans began placing the celebratory wine in anticipatory glasses, and hard thought plans. Norway was _not_ pacing. He would go to war, if Sweden did not show up soon. He wanted to go to war anyway. There had been nothing but delays since the beginning. He had waited for five months. This was not—

With an accidental misapplication of force the door jumped from its frame whammed into the wall, and rebounded, swinging back to be stopped by an awkward Swedish palm. Turning from his personal hole in the carpet, Norway just raised a single eyebrow. The Kingdom of Sweden wore faint embarrassed pinkness in his cheeks like a dusting of colored sugar [36], but he still crossed to the table in the middle of the room, and set down the stiff sheets of paper. They hit the wood with the finality of a closing door. "There."

Norway walked to the table. He picked the printed words from the surface, and began to read, his eyes savoring each line. Out in the hallway, someone popped a cork off the champagne bottle, and the sound of hard working people readying themselves to appreciate a good job filtered in. Norway would join them eventually. Eventually. He had some very good reading to catch up on.

Sweden remained in the room, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture painfully correct.

Turning to the last page, Norway glanced over the top of the paper. "Your signature's there, and your seal. England witnessed it. It's ratified. You may leave."

The tall man nodded, but did not move. With an irritated sigh, Norway placed his copy on the table. The creamy white of the paper smiled up at him from the expanse of hard wood. He wanted to enjoy reading this. "Don't make me kick you out, Sweden. I still have troops on the border [37]."

Again, another short nod. Those unnerving eyes had focused on a point where the rioting green wall paper met the molding of the ceiling. "Jus'—Jus' want'd t' know what y' were goin' t' do now. 'S y'r _neighbor_."

Norway picked up his sheaf of papers again, shaking it once more. "Finish reading this."

"N't wh't I meant," Sweden's face grew harsh with frown lines, and he crossed to the window that Norway had uses as a marker of his perambulations about the room earlier in the day.

Keeping his face blank, Norway decided to answer the tall man. "Finish reading this. Get drunk. Go walking in the woods. Does this satisfy you?"

Silence stretched between them. Sweden could be looking at the harbor, or his gaze could be years in the distant past. Norway had no idea, but he did not really care.

"No."

Surprise, surprise. Pulling out one of the chairs at the table, Norway sat. "It will have to do, Sweden."

More quiet. Then the large man broke it: "Wh't d' I need t' do? I gave y' y'r ind'pend'nce. N't makin' m' king take y' throne [38]. Norge, wh'n'll y' stop treatin' me likeh stranger?"

The seat man considered saying 'never,' but a slight bend in that long spine, an air of defeat weighing down the shoulders made him reconsider. He looked at the precious document in his hand, thinking about his answer. "I was supposed to be free almost a century ago. You're all strangers to me."

Sweden made some noise in his throat that suggested Norway was either crazy or an imbecile. "Th' whole world?"

"Why not? I don't need any of you," even though Sweden was not looking in his direction, Norway carefully kept his eyes hooded with glazed contempt.

Soon enough the large man shading the window turned, and found his own chair at the table. "N't ev'n t' build y' mon'rchy?"

That brought a frown out in the cold nation. He couldn't help but feel a little annoyed with himself. Norway had intended not to show any emotion to Sweden. Still, it was out there. "I am not sure if I even want one. Arthur, however, has views on revolutionaries, and I know I don't need your southern allies knocking on my door to tell me how people who don't have a supreme ruler can always get one from Berlin. So I suppose I must find a king somewhere. I've been thinking Denmark [39]. To be perfectly honest, _we've_ seen enough of each other, haven't we?"

Sweden nodded, his face clouded. For a moment he played with his fingers, twirling them around each other, and looking at the table. Norway wondered if they were thinking the same thing. For all his confident words about kingship, there was a chance that the third Scandinavian might not wish to give anything to Norway.

Indeed, Sweden's words confirmed that his thoughts were migrating in the same general direction as Norway's. "Y'-y' heard 'nythin' fr'm Danmark? 'T all?"

Thinking back briefly, as though Sweden had not been there, Norway shook his head. "Not since 1863."

They both dropped into deep visual contemplation of the fine layers of veneer on the table. Norway felt obligated to add, although Sweden probably knew this already: "He hasn't been in Copenhagen. At least, when I'm sailing with my merchants, and they end up in Copenhagen he hasn't shown up to greet me."

Sweden nodded. His face was hard to read but the eyebrows seemed morose. "M' too. Thought—maybe he'd see y' if n't me."

Norway's expression felt under control. It did not freeze or grow more cold, as he posed his stony question. "What about your _friends_ in the German Confederation [40]?"

To his surprise, Sweden flinched. "'Twas a partitionin', Norge."

A frown appeared, actively furrowing Norway's forehead, before he could get his face under control. "There are partitionings, and _partitionings_. Danmark is tough."

"Y'know wh't Pr'ssia 'nd 'Stria did t' Pol'nd. D'nmark's been racin' for a fall. Y'know he has," Sweden's voice slammed into Norway's conscience like a loaded steam engine. "'Nyway, hav'n't seen him since his war. Was hopin' y' had."

Abruptly, the shorter of the two thrust his chair back, and began to pace. He wanted to be on a trail out by Bergen. He had been in the city too long. The trees were calling like sweet retiring old maids who never got enough visitors. "We agreed we couldn't get involved," he hissed, glancing at Sweden in irritation.

Sweden nodded. "Wh't 'bout Island?"

"Still won't talk to me," Norway came to a stop by the lone window, and rested his palms on the wooden frame. "Danmark ignoring me? Fine. I spent four hundred years in his house, and he only noticed me when there was a war. But Island; I don't know what to do about that. It's not my fault that he had to stay with Denmark. He should try for independence, if he's that unhappy in the house."

The noise Sweden made in the back of his throat was not encouraging of this point of view. It almost made Norway smile. Sweden really hated the idea of people rejecting shelter in general, didn't he? Ironic for the man who had run off into the winter night dragging Finland behind him. But Sweden was a selfish, inflexible, single-minded old man, and he always had been. If Finland decided to leave Russia tomorrow, Sweden would probably pull him back to his house faster than snow melted in hot sun. Norway had noticed that his border was not the only one with Swedish troops loitering near by, casually servicing their weapons [41].

Actually, Norway frowned to himself, there were a lot of rumblings coming out of Russia, if the papers were to be believed. "Have-have you heard anything from Finland since that business in January?"

Silence. Norway should install a clock in here, just to hear it tick. He looked at Sweden. Ah. The reason that his guest was silent was because the moisture from him own breath had frozen on the sheer coldness of his face, and iced his lips shut. "Nothing, then?"

"N't b'fore Janu'ry. N't since Janu'ry."

From the slight creaking of the table, where Sweden had put his whitening fingers against the lip, Norway got the impression that the subject was going to be dropped, fast, or there would be consequences. That was a perfectly acceptable state of affairs.

He should be celebrating. Sweden had finally relinquished the stubborn stranglehold on Norway. He had a strong trade partner in England—not that Norway was entirely satisfied with the agreement, but there were worse arrangements to be had. He had everything he wanted. He was going to stand alone for the first time in centuries, and the bright warmth that filled him at the thought was almost enough to banish the lurking clouds on the horizon. Almost.

Ah well, it was wiser to be cynical, and see trouble coming. Norway pressed his head to the cool glass of the window. He was looking east, viewing the neat arrangement of frost dusted wooden warehouses that huddled around the bowl of the harbor, but if he angled his head just right he could see a little of the southern approach of the sea.

Soon enough, he would be happy to retreat to his woods, and wander in the winter fastness, alone and himself for the first time in centuries. "A marvelous thing."

"Mmm?" Sweden's low hum queried.

Still gazing at the sea, Norway considered his answer. He owed Sweden nothing. Certainly not an explanation of his joy. "Independence. I imagine that I am going to have a fine time."

Long carpenter's fingers tapped on the table top. "W'n't it be l'nley?" Sweden's voice was barely audible.

With a struggle, Norway did not laugh. "That's the point, isn't it? Finally being alone."

The occupied chair scraped back. Wood protested slightly under Sweden's weight. "D'n't get it," the giant said at last. "Bein' wit'out 'nyone 'sthe worst thin' in th' world."

Norway shrugged, looking at the overcast sky. "I wouldn't know, now would I? I'll remember to tell you, should I ever feel my old weakness."

Sweden made a derisive noise. "No y'won't. Y' wouldn't tell 'nybody. Ev'n Danmark."

"Especially not Danmark," the cold man countered, trying to tear his eyes from the beauty of the shifting blue waves. At this rate he was going to neglect those trees, and continue working on the ships. "He can't keep his mouth shut to save his life."

Norway suspected greatly that Sweden was shaking his head in exasperation. "Nev'r goin' t' un'erstand you. Y' always annoyed wit' Danmark, 'nd yet y'd take him over m' 'ny day."

Breath misting on the glass, Norway refrained from looking at his former land lord. "You two are more alike than you think. Besides, Sweden, he is good for a laugh on occasion and you never are."

They stood, two independent nations, alone in a room that Norway used as a tea parlor, and now a place to read the beautiful words that confirmed he was only possessed by himself. Sweden, as always, seemed to be at a loss as how to exit gracefully. Or perhaps there was more that they needed to talk about, but could not find the words.

The giant blond cleared his throat unexpectedly. "D'y'think he'll forgive us?"

"I have no idea, Sverige. It will be his business if he does. See yourself out, will you?" Norway requested, returning to his chair, and picking up the reading. Soon he had shut out the rest of the world.

Two hours later, Norway had placed the legal bindings in their proper storage place within the desk hidden at the back of the library. Curling up on an over stuffed wing chair, with a celebratory coffee spiked with some bad Irish whiskey balanced on top of a book bound in deep blue leather next to his elbow, Norway opened the little green volume he had selected, and began to read.

* * *

**November 1907 – On a road heading west from Moscow, Russia**

The raw brown sludge of well mixed dirt and snow crawled up the hems of Ivan's coat, already having conquered his boots. He ignored the slow wetness brushing his pants, preferring to keep his head down and using his scarf-wrapped nose to break the keening wind before it could hit his face full blast. The open field stretched out as far as he could see (not that he could see very well, given how the wind was trying to tear the moisture from his eyes, and they were keeping up the battle valiantly) on either side of the road. There were train systems now, train systems that would let him get him to the Grand Duchy of Finland, or Prussia, or the Ottoman Empire, or wherever he was going within hours.

But that was not the point of the walk. As burning, furious muttering filled his streets, Russia was filled with the rising panicky desire to get out of those streets. So he had. Now he was walking on his roads, walking through his fields, seeing his pitiful lands in a way that he had not done since the first Peter. His Peter, who brought Estonia to him, and nearly had given him his precious, clawing Kitten. Had it really been that long? The 1700s had only been yesterday, he was certain. Catherine was still a towering mother in his memory.

But it had been that long ago. He rarely left his capital without an army all around him. When he was without an army, then he was with the diplomatic corps, heading to Paris, or Vienna. Negotiating peace, moving the powers of the world, because he was the most powerful. It had been a long time since he had walked these fields.

He wished he was back in the security of Moscow. Back with happy people. Back before he started listening. There were so many. So many voices. All clamoring and running rings and circles around him. Russia was beginning to get the idea that maybe the rulers had lied to him. That was distressing. His leader was there to be responsible, and help him. Help Russia be Russia, and produce happy humans who never went hungry, and never died as anything other than aged grandparents, surrounded by hundreds of happy children and grandchildren.

Leaders were responsible. He was there to be himself. What if he had to organize everything all on his own? He was not good at that. He could fight, he could grow things, he could build things, but Ivan lacked instruction. That was what leaders were for. That was team work. Cooperation.

With his humans, he was never alone.

Well, he was now. Alone was better than all that rage. He did not want to be angry. It felt bad to simmer and bubble like a pot on the boil. It hurt. Ivan was certain that he was about to swell and burst from his skin, raining in red gooey chunks all over the walls. And while that might be rather funny from an outsider's perspective, the repairs would be horrible, painful, and unpleasant.

No, better to be walking, looking into winter, daring it, silently. Give him some sign. Give him a direction. Even if that direction was just General Winter, that would at least tell him what he was destined for. A long, unpleasant, cold death, but still that was better than listening to humans, and agreeing with Katyusha that he was deranged. He had only done what they had told him to. It was his work as a country. He was following orders.

Away, and lonely, the white and brown fields stretched out, encompassing the totality of his earth. Above his hatted head, the sky had become a sickly yellow gray woolen blanket. But there was no cannon fire to comfort Russia. No dying scream of Prussia to warm the heart. No France to make his mind soar. Soar into beauty, and grace. Peaceful, fire burning grace. No, just emptiness, and the wind.

Vanya, you are alone.

Beneath his scarf, the old nation smiled sadly at the voice in his head. Oh Vanya, Vanya, Vanya. You do terrible things. You do terrible terrible heinous things. Things no one can fix. Katyusha has given up, Vanya. You broke the vase. Not Tino. You forced Tino to break the vase. God is above you, and he sees you, Vanya.

No. God is not above you. There is only the earth. Earth below, to which we will all return. No Vanya. No. You will die some time. We all have to die. No. No. We do not die. We cannot die. They perversely return us to life. Our leaders. Our humans. Our poor humans, dying and falling into the the snow, which will be a grave come spring. That is Russia. Graves in the spring. A land riddled with tombs. A living body filled with dead ones. That is you, Vanya.

This is why you are alone.

Another wet crunch broke Ivan's reverie. Straining his eyes eagerly, the country caught sight of a man, stepping through the slush of the road and heading in Russia's general direction. Ivan stopped. Was this the instruction he had been waiting for? The man was aware of him, in a general sense. It was not strong, or pure, as the human was caught up in his own little worries, and trials, living in the sea of his own mind. But he knew that there was a land, and that it existed, and that he was a part of it.

The stranger approached. Nodded. Russia stepped so the man's only option was to run into him. The human moved to one side. Ivan mirrored. Trying another track simply brought the man closer to Ivan's broad chest.

"I am trying to be on my way," the human said, realizing there would be this metaphorical flesh mountain in the way unless he could convince the other to move through some feat of eloquence. "Move it."

This particular man did not make his living in public speaking.

Russia smiled, and his round cheeks rose over the line of his scarf, as his strange eyes crinkled in delight. "You are an agent of change."

Ivan was not certain what the expression that was fixed with was trying to tell him. This was the face of someone who thought that Ivan had just told him that the triangles of the moon ate moose in July. "Errr, I'm not sure what you mean, but I'm pretty sure I'm not."

Ivan clapped him around the shoulders with the kind of hug that made Lativa go into adorable fits of shivering. "Tell me how to change. I wish to make everyone like me, and I need to change the things that make them dislike me. You tell me what you think."

The human blinked at his country, and found the only appropriate answer. "What about?"

"Oh," the country turned, and started to walk back down the road in the direction from which he had come. "Everything. What do you think of—," what had Katyusha said? The way he treated the other lands, except, well, a human would not know much about that. Hmm. The way he treated people. "Well, recent events, and-and the demonstrations?"

It was easier to talk like this. A single voice, filling him, making him think one thing at a time. There would be other people that he would have to talk to, of course. But this was much better. He smiled down at his human, realizing, in shock, that he really was thinking of the man as _his_ human. They had never been his humans before. Just voices, floating through, living and dieing like fireflies. Nothing permanent. Nothing strong like a land. But as this man began to talk, giving Ivan confused and worried sidelong glances every so often, the ideas rolled sensibly over the man-shaped Empire.

They were simple things. Easy thoughts about a single field that a man could happily tend, and feed his family with the results. Nothing big. Men did not have to live like kings. Just let there be enough. Just enough. Things had to change, and he was not certain how to do it, but there were ways. That was certain.

Ivan relaxed, amazed that there was finally a direction. Start with the problem. Find a solution. It was all so easy. And focusing like this helped tune out the feelings and washes of voices. The sea became a sea once more, rather than the pounding of individual raindrops attacking from every direction. It was much easier to swim towards the sea floor than drown with a little air keeping him alive just that much longer.

Maybe there might even be something enjoyable about this listening thing.

* * *

**December 1939 – Tolvajärvi, Finland (Tolvayarvi, Russia); Someplace North, Nominally Finland**

"Right, I want that crate down to my little Karjala yesterday," Tino ordered fiercely, pointing at the box filled with Russian machine guns, and smiling as the young man nodded in determination, grabbing the wooden crate and heading for his skis.

Tapped on the shoulder by a serious looking man with a white armband, the land turned to listen. His head tilted to the side, blond hair shining in the yellow light of the light swinging overhead. The attentiveness on his sweet face stabbed at Berwald, looming quietly in a corner, and hoping that he was blending with the shadows. Too many serious men speaking a language he had guiltily never learned enough of, and forgotten the rest saw him, anyway. Their quick eyes sought the shadows, peering into them, identifying him, and giving him distrustful looks.

For a second, Tino glanced in his direction, and then laughed at whatever his human was saying. "No, no. Come, I'll introduce you. Berwald!"

Giving up his happy career of shadow lurking, the tall nation reluctantly moved closer, careful to duck under the hanging lamp. He nodded gravely at the human. Tino seemed so different from these people, who he had only seen display the happy chatter of their land when drinking vile concoctions that even Denmark would hesitate to touch.

Tino gestured to the giant wrapped in a heavy coat and hat that was pointedly not military issue. All of his clothing consisted of varying shades of gray and white. "This is Berwald Oxenstierna."

More suspicious eyes. Had these people ever been his?

"Ruostin kuningaskunta [42]?" the human interrogated Finland. The tall nation could guess what that meant.

Keeping his gaze low, and hoping that his face was not showing his embarrassment at the state of affairs within his government, Berwald tried to answer for himself. "Jus' Berwald Oxenstierna. 'Sall."

The Finn nodded, fixing him with one last dour glare, and then the man turned to continue reorganization of supplies. Looking at his boots, the nation was surprised by a touch on his arm. Tino. Nervously, the older nation glanced at the friendly corner. "S'rry 'm not m'ch help."

"You're here, and you are still a good soldier," Finland replied encouragingly, before frowning. "_Any_ movement in your parliament?"

Berwald shook his head. "M' people h've the'r reas'ns f'r n'trality." _Even if it means letting you get taken by Russia again._ Was it disloyal to want to boil all your ministers in pitch and then give them a taste of the old drink [43] until they changed their minds? Probably.

He met Tino's eyes, as the younger man smiled tightly. "I understand."

"_I_ d'n't," the personification of Sweden found himself growling. "D'n't understand how it c'n b' th't, th't," he lapsed into awkward silence, not capable of saying what he wanted to say with so many human ears listening. Most likely he would be incapable of saying what he wanted to say even if there was only a lake and some birds to listen in. "Hum'ns," he muttered awkwardly.

Finland placed his hat more firmly on his hair, and pulled a lumpy gray scarf from a peg. Berwald frowned. He should make Tino something better than that. There were gaps and holes all over the thing, made by inexpert needles. Tino _would_ pick out the worst item of clothing just so one of his humans could have better.

Of course, the wise purple eyes caught his faint irritation, and Finland laughed. "Trust me, it's very warm. This was the first thing Lappi ever knitted me—and I'm fairly certain it's the first thing she ever knitted. I'm lucky to have it. Not many people can boast that they have an artifact of real Lapland magic in their possession."

"She cud put th' sp'll 'n somethin' 'f b'tter make," Berwald muttered critically, having no idea really. Magic had never worked well for him. You needed to be brave enough to sing—or once upon a time, the only magic worth having was sung [44]. Even _that_ had changed, and Svíþjóð [45] saw no reason to bother trying to understand it any more—as well as have some talent, and he had neither the kind of bravery necessary, nor the talent.

Tino just smiled, pulling on his long coat over the pale teal uniform. "Åland says the same thing. I notice he's never tried to actually do anything about it, though. Anyway, will you come for a bit of a walk?"

Awkwardly, Berwald tried to think of a way to ask the question that the latest comment had put in his head, while he checked his gloves, and then nodded to Tino. They both slipped from the dim hut that the Finns were using as a storage point for captured weaponry. By tomorrow everything would have been redistributed through out the country, as the serious men moved across the snowbound land with the determination to keep the land free of Russians.

Finally, feeling the harsh bite of frost on the strip of exposed skin between scarf and hat, Berwald found his voice. "How's Ål'nd?"

He wasn't able to see Tino's expression, but there was a general shoving of hands in frustrated pockets. "Unarmed, and I hope he stays that way, with the war going as it is. I had to be really sharp with him when I found him trying to sneak onto the lines back in November. He should be out trading, now. I think it's best for him not to have an excuse to sneak a few guns into his home, and wait for Russia to appear, don't you? That sort of thing gets a person jumpy, and it's not good for the health."

Tino's grasp of the understatement never failed to amuse Berwald, and he shook his head slightly, as they began to walk on top of unbroken snow, heading into the woods. "Y' glad he's wi' y'?" the tall man wanted to know.

Stopping to watch an unfortunate hare bounding across the snow, Tino remained quiet. Then he began to talk as soon as he started walking again, as if his mouth only worked while his feet were moving. "I think I'll be happier when he starts being happier. But things have been getting better. Slowly but surely. And there is honestly nothing like a hatred of Russia to get people to stick together, I've noticed."

Berwald, whose feelings about Russia reminded him of his feelings for Denmark during the so-called Dark Ages except that the feelings associated with the Eastern land were not as warm and fuzzy, could not help noticing that he was not sticking as closely together with Finland as he should. He glanced at the snow encrusted rough bark of a passing pine tree. Finland continued to speak, the bright sound of his words making the stiff man want to reach out and touch his shorter neighbor. The effect was not whatever was being said, but just the the warm sound wrapping around Berwald, pulling him along in Tino's wake. It had always been this way. However, Tino was correct, things could not be the way they once had been.

The cold was dry, harsh and cutting, once Finland stopped in a small grove. At least the area around and about was sheltered from the wind. "We need to talk about the war, at some point, Su-san."

The statement lay in the snow, waiting for Berwald to move, and pick it up. He refused to do so, though, choosing to watch, as Tino removed snow from some chopped logs, long forgotten, half rotted, and now frozen. The shorter man sat, and craned his neck, to look Berwald in the bespectacled eye, waiting. The richer nation turned his head from that probing gaze uncomfortably. "'Ll be here. Wit' you."

It was surprising that the snow was not melting off the ground all around the standing man, just from the strength of his embarrassment alone. He wanted to say something better than that. Something that would erase the history between 1808 and the present. Something that would somehow justify all of the stupid decisions and stupid mistakes. Instead, his typical brand of Swedish eloquence sabotaged all his intentions.

Tino just shook his head in something that might have been disbelief. "Su-san, I saw you during the battle the other day. You're in a lot of pain, aren't you?"

Wide shoulders shrugged. "Passes wh'n 'm n't je'p'rdizin' m' neutral'ty. 'Ll get us'd t' it."

Oh God. That sentence made him blink with the impact it had on his conscious brain. Unless Russia physically knocked on the door of a boarder guard, his land would not enter this war. Not for Tino. Not for all his wishes to the contrary. He was just going to get used to it, or go home.

Finland sighed. "That's not good, and we both know it. Berwald, you're not good at disobeying your duty."

Teeth creaked and ground against each other, as Berwald clenched his jaw. "D'sn't m'tter. 'Slong 's there'sa Swede in F'nland 'm stayin'."

"I can't let someone who possibly might keel over from internal bleeding go against Russia!" Finland jumped from his seat. "You want to stay and fight as a—as less than a nation? You follow _my_ orders! Which means that when I tell you to leave the field or help with the Lotta [46], instead, you'll do that. But it also means that you're going to be at my side. Even if Germany invades your land," his voice was almost a whisper, softly caressing Berwald's cheek. "Can your people really do without Sverige?"

A muscle danced in his eyelid. Sweden clenched his fists into tight rolls of muscle and bone. That was low. That was cruel. He had followed his passions before, no one but Denmark coming out the worse for his leaving his country-hood behind. But that had been only for a few minutes. Not for weeks, or the months that this war could take.

"Love y'," Berwald began awkwardly, feeling a stomach churning wrench. It shuddered like an axe blow through his whole body. "'M n't—'ve d'ne m'duty ferra long time. Shudn't I g't t' say, once, m'land c'n go die som'where if I c'n't h'lp y'?"

Tino's laugh rang hollowly among the tree trunks. He sat on the logs once again. "I need the help. I won't deny that. But this isn't how we're going to do things, Su-san."

"'f I g't 'n m'knees 'nd begged, wud th't ch'nge y' mind?" Berwald suggested, dropping to his knees, just in case it would.

His cheeks pink from cold, Tino couldn't help the chuckle that bubbled up. Berwald's mouth slid hopefully upward. It must seem very strange from Finland's perspective. He was at war. The chances were that soon Germany would turn from sacking Poland, and come help Russia. The most likely outcome of that would be that Finland would be no more, or stuck in the whirling nightmare of Russia's house.

And here Sweden was on his knees, earnestly trying to convince Tino that he was human enough for politics not to be a problem. "Stop being silly. No, please, stop. You'll get all wet, and then freeze to death."

"'Npleas'nt, but y'r worth't," the white billow of his breath was tugged back to his glasses, causing the little ice ferns by the metal frames to grow slightly.

Tino must have noticed, or just wanted to get him to let go of the vain hope that begging was going to change any of the realities of their situation. "You shouldn't be wearing these when it's this cold, especially not in a war. Do you want glass in your eyes?"

Gloved hands reached over, and relieved him of his vision. The world became fuzzily white and dark green. Berwald used the excuse to move closer to Tino, and put gloved fingers on his cheek. "F'nd y'."

"Yes, you did," the Swede was certain that he could fall right into the quiet love of those words and happily lay there forever.

A small gust managed to shake the hollow, and rip any warmth from flesh. Sweden, used to the cold, and with his scarf wrapped around most of his face, shivered. "Y'r cr'zy t' leave y' face so 'xposed," he told Tino bluntly.

Finland shrugged. "I'm used to the weather, and it's my land."

It was a lovely face, too, so the Swedish nation would not object too strenuously.

Thinking hard, he brightened up: "One 'f m' Gen'rals 's plannin' t' get a volunteer force down here. 'Mazing wh't y' c'n f'rget t' tell y'r bosses wh'n th' time comes [47]. 'Ll stay wi' y' 'til they get here."

"Hey," Tino's voice was not built for growling, but he was managing to remind Berwald of a very unhappy bear all the same. "My house, my rules, Su-san. If I catch you trembling because you're overreaching yourself, or something you're going to head right back to Stockholm. And stay there."

Well, Berwald had plenty of practice in keeping any sign of weakness from being observed by Denmark, he would just have to make certain that Tino did not catch a sign of the inevitable disagreement between what he wanted and what his people wanted. He climbed jerkily to his feet, brushing the snow that had packed onto his coat. "Y' house, y' rules," he repeated quietly, offering his companion, who looked to be on the verge of rising, a hand.

Tino looked up at him as he stood. "You're changing, Su-san."

"'m not."

A slight, soft smile. "You are. Anyway, even if your people come, they won't be here by tomorrow. Russia's already taken Suomussalmi, and if he gets any further, I'll lose my very pleasant single front war, and you'll lose any easy way back to Sweden. There's another ally I think I can call on. But to do it, we're heading North."

This bit of information puzzled Sweden. "Norge's close wi' Engl'nd, but he w'n't br'k n'trality f'r y' [48]."

"I'm not asking him to. What I plan to do won't be pleasant, but it won't be a nation thing, either. Not, at least, as we count nation stuff now. I'm just hoping that everybody comes. I'm really rusty at this."

"Ev'rybody?"

They walked into the afternoon, and bright slashes of pink reflecting from the snow. Berwald tried to question Tino more closely, but gave up, after a while, and save his breath for walking. Tino was concentrating, obviously, tugging on his land here and there to get them over the worst areas. But not tugging as much as he could have. Berwald wondered about this.

He could feel Tino carefully putting little bits of himself in the land, caressing the ice, sinking through the water. Soon he got the feeling, passing through another silent forest, that the land under the earth, that had given rise to Tino, was rolling in its sleep. That it was waking. Not like a land woke to spring, but like a land waking to a different age, and not being particularly happy about it. A land that was peering grumpily out at him from between blankets of snow, and trying to decide if he was bearing coffee, or had been the one doing the awakening.

Snow began to fall. Their feet always managed to stay above it, but it weighed down their clothes, and melted only to freeze once more, until not even faint emanations of body heat were enough to counteract the bone numbing temperature around them. Soon it was just shifting veils of snow, muting all color to misty variations on gray. Sweden was not even certain that they were still in the world proper, as the two plodded through another forest, the deep pines dully massing gradients of green blending to the over all pale gray.

There had been days like this before. Many days over the course of his long life, where he was just walking, walking forever in snow that drifted everywhere, and obscured everything, until even the destination was gone. Just the journey, among the softly sighing flakes.

This journey, however, was Tino's, and as long as he was here, Berwald was lucky to be allowed to walk by his side.

Finland halted. They were in a clearing, that much Berwald could make out. Cold wove through, comforting in its familiarity. They waited, silently, in a land that was awake, and watching now, filled with the knowledge that Finland was there. A gust of wind shook some snow from a tree, and it whirled past the two in a white shifting cloak, which suddenly resolved into a tall, dark blue shape.

Berwald felt Tino relax by his side. "Norja. Thank you. I wasn't certain you'd come."

The fellow nation was not clearly visible, both because of the weather, and Berwald's lack of eye wear, but Sweden imagined that there was the familiar arrogant tilt to the head, and perhaps a hidden gleam of interest in the flat dark eyes.

"Hmm. You made it sound interesting. An old spell?" the voice was flat, and careless as ever.

Tino nodded slightly. "Very old. It doesn't need much work, but I'd rather have an expert here."

Contempt laden silence responded to these words, and Sweden wondered why he had not brought a staff of some sort. "You needed an expert so you brought Sverige. No _wonder_ you're known as the smart one."

"He attached himself," Tino's voice remained light, taking none of the offense that Sweden was storing. "Besides, he's a good anchor. _Please_, Norja."

As always, Tino's kindness (or perhaps the edge of steel in the request) managed to melt the Norwegian just a bit. "All right. Do we need a live sacrifice?"

Finland hesitated, glanced in Berwald's direction, and then nodded. "I'll provide it. You're just here as-as witness, Norge. You don't want the person I'm asking to dinner to come to your house."

Possibly the other Nordic inclined his head. "Let's start, then."

Finland glanced around one last time. "I suppose we must. I had hoped, well—,"

Several things happened at once. Something dark exploded from the falling weather behind Norge. Instinctively Berwald reached for his staff, and that leaped to hand, an action that only occurred when:

"Danmark! Lag meg være [49]!"

The two dark shapes rolled over in the thick drifts, the one with a huge axe strapped to his back coming out on top. Sweden stepped forward, ready to slam his staff into the Southern nation's chest, and lift him from Norge by force, when he was saved from having to do that, as one of Norway's huge trolls burst into easy life from snow flakes, and slammed a fist into the side of the loud nation's head. Danmark spun into a snow drift, as Norge hopped lightly to his feet, and brushed off his clothes. "Thank you, Bagatell," the seafaring nation nodded to his supernatural friend, before he rounded on his former partner. "You annoying, irritating, insufferable, grating, abrasive—you! It's been fifty years, and you think that this is the appropriate way to greet someone?"

Denmark struggled from the snow. "I was just going to topple the face of doom over there, but I'd probably put an eye out on his boney shoulder, so you won the whitewash treatment. I'm told the fresh stuff does wonders for the skin," he held out a dark blur that, seeing as it appeared to be attached to his forearm, Sweden would assume was a hand until presented with other evidence. Waiting for a thorough dusting of snow, he brought the white fuzz to his face for a long stare, and then wiped his hands on his coat. "Uncivilized stuff, I call it [50]. Don't know what you see in this snow thing, Finland. So, what'm I here for?"

In the gloom, and possibly unconsciously, his hands reached for his axe, unstrapping it from his back with ease of practice. Tense, Sweden was pleased to note that he did not have to reposition his feet. They were already perfectly braced against the snowy earth.

Oddly, Tino stepped between the two old nations, placing himself in the most danger. Berwald nearly snarled, and thrust him from the path of combat, but that would only provoke Danmark, who also was coiled for a spring.

"Stop it, you two."

Norge was staring at the gray sky. "You put a little too much effort into preparing things, I would guess. They're regressing to the states when the land last felt like this beneath us. Surprising. I would hardly have thought that they had advanced beyond that."

A spiky outline moved, turning to look at Norway, just a bit. Sweden forced himself to relax, resting the butt end of his staff in the snow with a dull thunk, as at almost the same second the massive battle axe was rested on Denmark's broad shoulders with all the nonchalance of a rangy fox pretending not to inspect a chicken coop.

Tino sighed. "I just want to try a little summoning."

Denmark made a disbelieving noise. "Oh, magic. What'd you want me for?"

"Target practice, if he had any sense," Norway muttered.

For a second, Sweden believed that Denmark was actually going to respond to that. Then the tall man shrugged. "Same as ever, eh, Norge? Cold. Humorless."

Finland cleared his throat. Somehow that was enough to snap the tension rolling from Denmark. "I need you because, well, when it's all of us, I'm pretty certain that even Kenraali Talvi will think twice before just doing as he likes."

Sweden spun from his watch on Denmark, but Denmark had done the same, to stare at the same man in consternation. In a flicker of movement Sweden suspected his rival spared one glance for him, just to check if they were thinking the same thing, before the sandy nation voiced it. "Finland, you're going to _ask_ Ken-Ken-General Winter to come and hang around? You used to give _me_ nightmares with the stories you'd tell of him!"

Tino moved slightly, lifting his chin, defiant. "Well, what else do you propose? You're all neutral, and I understand that, I really do. You have _people_ to look after. But so do I, and he came with Ivan's army. I've decided to invite him in properly. If people are going to die, why should they just be mine?"

"He takes children and those who do not fight," Norway reminded Tino softly. "You've chosen an interesting devil to treat with."

Berwald knew the wide, sweet smile, tinged with nerves, and uncertainty, but filled with the determination to continue onward. "So does Russia. But, this one leaves with the spring. The other one doesn't. Tanska, if you'd take the West? That way Norja can have the South, and work a surprise if he gets out of my control. Berwald, he'll be coming in from the East, so I'll need you there, ready to anchor me. Don't worry, Norja will have done the hard bits.

Norway moved first, gliding like a ghost to a part of the clearing that barely bore the impressions of their feet in the snow anymore, as Finland began to hum, finding his notes, before he found the words. Sweden prowled into his place, and turned to see Danmark finish limping to his.

Norge, unusually chatty, spent a long time examining the circle of people. "It has been a long time since we were together like this."

In the evening gloom Sweden picked out Denmark's grunt. "Yeah. Even if we count us all together as the times when we were all at war together, it's still been a while."

"Let's pretend I'm not."

Sweden, the image of warmth and good cheer coming unbidden to his head, volunteered a date: "F'rteen tw'nnyeight. High t'ble."

They lapsed into silence, lightened only by Finland's hum. Denmark broke it with a chuckle. "I remember that. Tiny Tino was serving all of us, and you kept trying to keep him from getting to my place."

The fond remembrance turned slightly wry. "Y'were dr'nk 'nd bein' lewd."

An amused snort. "You were chasing boys that long ago. Funny how the world works out."

"At least he wasn't so drunk that he could no longer tell what was male or female," Norway observed sharply. "And you kept kicking me under the table, while aiming for him, hoping no one would see you."

A dim shadow, Denmark, moved, probably an expansive gesture of some kind. "Eh, Norge, it was simpler back then. If they were on bottom, they were the woman—Anyway, end of story, the fun is about to start."

Danmark shifted position to address Tino. Sweden frowned to himself. Given Denmark's habit of telling stories, particularly if he could star as the protagonist of the exploit, and was likely to make Sweden uncomfortable, this was abrupt. However, Tino had actually begun to sing quietly.

Under their feet, the ancient nations felt the land respond, adding something earthy and intangible to the cycle of notes. Soon the music and earth were circling each other, whirling the other three along, around Finland as seabirds wheel, or dogs ring prey, waiting for the master's call.

The wind picked up, adding a cold, unpleasant howl to spiraling notes. A human would have frozen. As it was, in a thousand years they had never been as cold, nor would they ever again. Breath ripped from their bodies. Flesh felt as though it was flying away, and soon all they were skin taut skeletons, grim reminders of the firelight burning in their chest cavities, which the wind sucked and greedily tore at, incapable of devouring.

Still, Finland sang, drawing air from some secret place. Drawing the warmth to still work his muscles from the deep earth. He sang into blackness. He sang into storm. He sang into stars. He sang into light.

The wind shrieked. It tore through the snow, fountaining higher and higher, whirling like a Catherine wheel, as the void became colder and colder.

Time froze. Snow did not fall. The wind died. Cold hit them like a fist. General Winter wafted into the circle, and the music stopped.

The old man said nothing, looking down at Tino. Sweden took a breath. He tried to take a breath, but claws of ice seized the bottoms of his lungs. General Winter, ghostly, strange, looked around the circle. It was not often that Sweden was put in a situation where he was without any useful experience, but the disinterested ice of the man's gaze shocked him with the realization that they were mere boys playing at silly games in the man's front yard.

"Please help me," Tino's voice cracked through the cold, requesting, as he held out his hand, and, wincing, stabbed his ring finger.

Rich and red, the cold stole the blood before it shattered on the ground. "Yes."

Spreading his great cloak, the old man turned, rushed over Norway, and spread out over land that Sweden and Finland had walked through for the whole day.

Tino, white faced, tottered. The instant was all that Sweden needed. He was at Finland's side, supporting the other nation. By everything on high, Finland felt as though he was made of air. The shadowy forms of Denmark and Norway crowded the two of them, and Sweden felt the overwhelming desire to push them both away, wrap Tino in his mantel, and get the man somewhere safe and dry. Well, he was going to do the last two, anyway, until Tino pushed himself from Berwald's arms, probably smiling. He would be. "No, no, I'm alright. 'Ve gotta be at Suomussalmi b'fore dawn."

"Yuh-huh," Denmark leaned in, and poked Finland's forehead with one finger. "You're not going anywhere any time soon. Well, this has been—everything it should have been."

The questioning noise in the dark had to have come from Norge. Sweden would never understand the man.

Denmark seemed to, or at least was too ingrained in routine with him. "Eh, I wasn't even sure I wanted to come. But it's right, us meeting like this. We should do it more often. Only with more beer and less General Winter."

Norway, practical, turned away. "Is this really the time for _that_ again? We're not going to form some pathetic Nordic union. Those times are gone. We're free thinking, independent men with houses of our own, and concerns of our own. A union would only weaken us, or did you just sleep through the treaty-made Great War? It wouldn't surprise me; none of us could _find_ you. I realized this might have escaped your self involved attention, but the lower continent is erupting in chaos at the moment."

"Really? You mean my nearest neighbor has got himself a power mad boss, and is engaged in a beating of Poland that makes the old partitions look like a nostalgic memory?" Denmark inquired. "I never noticed. Next you'll be telling me that there are U-Boats in the Baltic, or that—,"

Tino was trembling, and it was probably only exhaustion that kept him from getting in the middle of the brew. Sweden, deciding that independence or no independence, Finland was not going to fall face first into the snow, put a steadying hand on his shoulders. "St'ppit Danmark."

The pale blur of a face turned towards him. "Mmm? What?"

He knew, what. He always knew what. Sweden did not bother to glare. That was pointless. "'M takin' Tino back. Y' do wh't y' like."

The other strapped his axe back in place, telling the air, or all three of them: "It was seventy-six years."

"I've been rounding down," the retort was weak, for Norge. He had a certain flat quality to his voice that he would pointedly emphasize while verbally jabbing at people. Right then, he had just sounded weary.

The eastern contingent turned from the other two, and walked through the winter night, Tino leaning on Berwald's shoulder in sheer exhaustion. "You know, you're still supposed to be taking my orders," Tino pointed out. "I don't think I said we were leaving."

"I c'n take 'nitiative. 'Nyway, Danmark ne'ds th' space."

Tino nodded against Berwald's shoulder. "He was being a bit belligerent."

Sweden would call it something else, but his patience was worn thin on the subject of Danmark. Norge would look after him. Or beat the man up. Sweden did not have a preference. Right now, his interest was in getting Tino to wherever he needed to be, and then helping him, as much as he could, before his people's needs outweighed his ability to be useful.

"I know it hasn't been easy for you," Finland broke the silence to murmur. "Being alone, like this. You don't have to prove anything. You realize that?"

Proving something would have meant the expectation that Finland would return to his house, exclusively. Berwald knew better than that. Now, at least. "Still y'friend. Still love y'."

Tino chuckled. "If only land didn't get in the way all the time."

"Our lives," Sweden would have shrugged, but walking and shrugging while being used as a mobile pillow was not advisable. "We'll make it work s'mehow." After they reaped the consequences of whatever they had sewn.

* * *

**April 1940 – Copenhagen, German occupied Denmark; Reykjavik, Iceland; Quaanaat, Greenland; Thorshaven, Faroe Islands**

The familiar arm of Prussia threw itself in brotherly affection around the tall Dane's neck, and the shorter man stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. "You knew we were coming, sweetheart [51]."

Denmark continued looking out over the Baltic, his axe resting head down next to his side, like a crutch. Two hours. That was pathetic. Two hours.

"So," Prussia waved at the sea in a wide gesture, "how does it feel? Don't tell me you don't like it. You would have _fought_ if you didn't want us here. And think, in another few hours, Norwegen will fall. We might even give you a Nordic union of some sort. Bring back the old glory days. Under our banner, of course. Ludwig's people will love it, all those big strong blond nations united in brotherhood. Little do they know about Schwedenschwuler [52], but I'll leave that as a small surprise for them," the harsh laugh hung nasty and vicious on the air.

Denmark, who had kept track of the propaganda, glanced at Prussia. His grip on the axe haft tightened. "I'd think they'd react in much the same way as they react to having an albino in charge of their former Empire."

Prussia's smile was not friendly any more. "Oh no, they'd take it much worse. I'm _supposed_ to be defective. Genetics has declared it thus. Mmm. You know, I don't even know if I've got genes."

Denmark lifted his axe. Before it had risen five inches, Prussia was in front of him, pressing the thin barrel of a pistol into his eye. Denmark gently rested the huge instrument of war across his shoulders, and gave Prussia a cool look.

"Bruder, he is our friend," Ludwig demanded from behind Denmark, perhaps not a welcome sound, but far more welcome than the intimate acquaintance he was now making with a German gun.

The pistol removed itself. Prussia clapped Denmark on the shoulder. "Fine, fine. Well, Dänemark, time to share."

Stripping off a glove with his teeth, the old nation started at the harbor. Ships bobbed on the blue waves, riding close to rectangles of buildings and the concrete and steel of the dry dock. Steam stacks soared into the sky, still at work, Germans or no Germans. Men were bleeding out their last inside Denmark, and here he was, turning to Ludwig, axe on his shoulders.

"Everything's been signed, and made official," he wondered if this was how Norge felt, as ice walls built behind his words. "You don't need this immediately, and I've got some business to take care of."

Prussia tapped his foot on wet, badly repaired concrete. "Jetzt Liebchen. We do have other countries to conquer."

Denmark shot a spiteful glance in Prussia's direction. "Sometimes patience is a virtue. Ach, who gives a damn."

He put his hand out, and seriously, Ludwig did the same. This wasn't painful, like losing land, or partitioning. It just felt weird, as ink suddenly doubled, and twisted, writhing under his skin, streamed along his arm, into the palm, and then disappeared, like milk in front of a cat.

Disoriented, Ludwig staggered a bit, his eyes shuttling back and forth rapidly, as he sorted the new information. Denmark waited for it. Maybe Ludwig wouldn't notice, but he doubted it, and given the way Prussia was watching the fading lines of ink on his brother's skin, chances were that at least one of the two would—

The barrel of the pistol pressed mockingly against his neck. "Now, now, Dänemark, you weren't holding back on us, were you? That's not nice."

The blonde nation smiled down at Prussia. "Well, I suppose you'll have to talk to Arthur about that, won't you?"

Ludwig stared. "You—,"

The affable shrug felt strange behind all the ice that Denmark had placed between himself and the thought of occupation. "I'm their guardian. What did you think I was doing while you were invading? I have responsibilities. Have _fun_ in the ocean."

Three hours ago, Denmark looked around Reykjavik, Iceland at his side, still blinking sleep from his eyes. Denmark was greatful that the boy wasn't complaining. It was far too early in the morning. "So, I've talked to Arthur—,"

"I can take care of myself," the young man told him, before looking down the gray street once more, brooding. "You sure they're going to come?"

Denmark nodded. "Could be any time now. Certainly today or tomorrow."

The young man crossed his arms. "We're neutral. I don't—,"

Ruffling his white hair, Denmark chuckled at the boy's belief that neutrality of all things would ever save anyone. "The only way you can take Arthur is if you can take out that navy of his, right? Germany has to control the sea, and guess what you are? A back door into Scotland, and all of England's west coast. Of course they're going to come. But don't worry, kid, they'll have to get you through me."

Sadly, Iceland saw the unfortunate part of that statement. "You haven't been active in a war since, well, since Schleswig. You haven't been _successfully_ active in war since long before that."

Denmark nodded, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Yeah. That's why I've been talking to Arthur. By the way, he told me some interesting things about your ties to the Germans. Wanna talk?"

The young Nordic stared ahead. "It's just Ludwig. I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm neutral, and he wants to talk to someone who isn't Prussia, sometimes. He knows he's not really welcome."

Denmark gave Iceland a long bath in critical silence. "How, exactly? It isn't as though you tell his boats to stay out of your waters. You should take a leaf from Norge's book [53]."

This comment made Iceland scowl. "I also let in England's ships to rip his to pieces. I think that's a signal enough that I don't care what happens to him."

Ah. Good old Northern subtle aggression. Please read the triple layers of fine print closely. Island was so much like Norge it was scary sometimes. Still, this time around, Norge was patrolling his sea bounds with a firmly independent vengeance, and Denmark really hoped that Island would follow that routine.

"Well, you've had your land since you got your house, so I guess we've got no more to say. Figure out what you want to do with the warning. I've got to go see Grønland [54]. Wish me luck."

Island stared at him. "Greenland—You think they're going to try to invade him to?"

The nod was a simple acceptance of fact. "I'm a flat sandy track in the middle of nowhere that no one really needs. There are better harbors, and even if you want control of the Baltic, you'd have to capture Sverige as well, if not Finland. My airfields are nothing in comparison to the ones that the Luftwaffe already has. Everything I am just makes everything _slightly_ more convenient for Germany. There are only four reasons to invade me. You, positioned to take out Arthur. Grønland, who has the harbors for both an attack on England, and that country to the north of America. Færøerne, again, well positioned in the North Sea to attack England. The conversation with her is probably going to be more _fun_ than with Grønland."

The problem with young nations was that they did eventually grow old enough to count. A horrible understanding was dawning in Island's purple eyes. "What's the fourth reason?"

Denmark studied the cloudy night sky. It was probably going to rain before the morning sun rose. Beside him, he could feel Iceland growing more agitated. It just wasn't fair. He was just about ready to let things go. The limp was barely noticeable, and he had been in the mood to start dealing with people again. Not in a big way, but maybe just talking to them on occasion, and then this happened. Damn Germany.

"Tell me, Danmörk. I'm old enough to know."

How Denmark managed to refrain from mentioning that as the eldest to the youngest, it was rather laughable hearing that, the tall nation had no idea. "Look at a map, Island. Tyskland wants all of Europe, and to do that he needs England. To get England, yeah, my islands would help, but what he really needs is Norge and his strong navy and infrastructure. If you don't want to mess with Sverige, I'm the best way to get to the wonders of the north. Not much better than what he already has, but _slightly_ better. Anyway, I'm going to be invaded. You'd better have some good friends."

The parting nod reassured Denmark. Island would be all right. Hopefully, anyway.

His reception in Greenland fell far short of the friendly hospitality that Island had shown. Firstly, Grønland was about as north as it was possible to be on his island, Denmark was pretty certain. The European tried not to leave Qaqortoq when he visited, and this seemed to be an acceptable action for Grønland, who tried not to run into Denmark if he could possibly help it.

So, he was up in icy Qaaanaat, clubbing seal to death, or whatever, and Denmark had to go see him. Not the best way to start off a talk that was going to deal with the potential invasion of your country. Denmark arrived in the little circle of tents in a bit of a temper, and wishing that he was wearing more of a hat.

It was just before eleven of the previous evening—timezones were really wonderful things—and the sky overhead maintained a vivid deep sapphire, and bright lonely stars. None of the bright ribbons of fox fire ran over head, but that was probably just waiting to happen. How many nights had he stayed awake on board a ship, tilting his head back to see the legions of colors, as the spirits of the dead danced in the sky?

At least Grønland was awake, and staring moodily at Denmark, as the ruling country approached. He had a cup of something steaming in his hand but did not offer anything to Denmark, beyond a quiet: "What?"

Sticking his gloves under his arms to warm his hands, the king of Northern Europe tried to intimate that perhaps they should talk in a tent. However, this was received with either no understanding, or no enthusiasm. Denmark scowled. "You know it's freezing out here."

Grønland shrugged. "Get a hat."

Sighing in irritation, Denmark scratched his head, displacing his small military cap. "Germany will be invading me."

The dark eyes stared at him dully. A long silence, only broken by the cloud of frozen breathing. Grønland tipped his mug in an indication that Denmark should continue. Trying to figure out what to say next without prompting, the Nordic country looked out on the bright water of Baffin Bay. There was more land out there. He had visited several times, poached in those waters, but it was just wilderness. Miles and miles of it, old and gentle in the way that quietly slumbering land was. The earth knew its creation, and had no fear of it. He wondered about that. There were not many lands that felt like that underfoot. Grønland always felt slightly resentful, and even Færøerne could be a little bitter on occasion. Ah well, the North American continent was not Europe.

"You have people who can keep you safe, right? I've talked to England and his attache about you, but you're not the easiest person to invite into the house, so I thought I'd warn you."

Light from the stars reflected off the snow and lit the thoughtful expression on Grønland's dark face. The young man nodded once. "America."

Denmark blinked. Well, that was news. Still, a strong neutral country that Germany did not want to get involved in the war unless it was on his side. Grønland could certainly do worse. He tore off his right glove. "C'mon, lets do this quickly. Semi-independence sounds good, right?"

Grønland eyed the pale appendage, and then whipped off his own mitten. "Can I keep it?"

"Har har," Denmark felt cold biting through his skin, but that did nothing to stop the words and ideas of the geography of the huge island of ice from doubling, and then passing through the warm contact of palms. "Good luck, then."

The handshake broke, and he turned away. Perhaps he should have done this in reverse. Hardest confrontation to easiest. On the other hand—Far away in Jutland a young Dane, surprised by German soldiers marching across his border posting began to fire his gun, until the warmth of a bullet made his body cold forever. A harsh pain ripped through his heart as he felt jack boots descending on København's harbor. Oh, those sly bastards.

Arthur was already in Tórshavn when Denmark arrived, out of breath, and across the waves. The green eyes, only visible because of light from a flashlight, eyed the axe clutched in Denmark's right hand. "They're invading you, too, then?"

"Yeah. I'm surprised you're not in your jammies, Løve," he smiled grimly at the shorter man, decked out in his green uniform.

Arthur's smile was the very definition of sardonic. "I will be, once I can get to bed. I was with Norway trying to talk him into joining our side. As a way to help fortify Finland, of course. As soon as the Germans landed, he told me to get out, and not come back until I had a navy and air force at my back," he made a gesture that suggested had he not been holding a flash light he would had run fingers through his hair, trying to make it even more messy, if that was possible. They began walking down the street, England half a step behind Denmark, looking around at the slumbering capital. "We've already discussed what to do with Faroes. I'm glad Germany hasn't made it here, yet. I've been worried about her. How long has it been since your invasion?"

"About an hour. I'm out of practice shortening sea distances. Greenland said he wanted to stay nominally independent. Can you imagine that? He's only glaring pointedly for his allowance every other hour."

Taking out a pocket watch and using his flashlight, Arthur nodded. "I thought as much. Trust the Germans to be efficient in their planning, if nothing else. They began the invasion in Norway at the exact same time."

Denmark let his axe blade bounce off the hard packed gravel of the street in frustration. "Damnit! I thought that they'd at least wait a day to use my land as a launching facility."

England's reply was an unruffled shrug. These things happened. It was a war. "You could be fighting them right now."

Denmark snorted. He could feel the old scar on the inside of his thigh pulling painfully at the healthy skin around it, as the ropey tissue angrily reacted to his swift jaunt over the waves. "Prussia knows me a lot better than I want to admit. I'm only putting off defeat. My military is—they're good boys, but we both know I'm not ready for this war, any more than I was ready for the last one. Most of my best are in Finland. Anyway, I have responsibilities. I'm not the best older brother in the world, but I can see to it that Prussia and Germany don't get their hands on the people who look up to me."

Arthur nodded. "She's here, then? I couldn't feel her once I got onto the islands."

In the green blue glow of false dawn Denmark grinned. Færøerne was such a clever girl. But she had not yet gone out with her ships from the harbor, and he could feel her near the rooms she that rented for reasons of desperately trying to help out her own economy, heading for her bicycle.

"C'mon," Denmark waved a hand in the proper direction. "She'll be off with the fleet before you know it. She must have slept in a little today. Lucky me."

Noticing the eagerness and enthusiasm that amounted to the same amount generally shown for his cooking, Arthur raised one of his eyebrows. "You wanted to leave her to be invaded and become a base for those horrible boats of theirs? I'd have to bomb her to the very bedrock."

That would be horrible, and they both thought as much. Even though full daybreak was at least two hours off, they both could imagine the bright green of the city, and worse imagine all that vegetation withered to blackened ashes.

"No, no," Denmark replied. "I'll miss her. That's all. She's been wonderful. By the way, if anything happens to her, lile Løve, I will hunt you down. I might be burning. I might be Russia's plaything. I might be king of the world. I might be Germany's butler. I might be drowned in the Pacific. I might be dissolved, and landless, but I will hunt you down, and return the Danelaw to your island."

Arthur's returning glance was reproving. "As if I would let anything happen to Faroes."

The pronunciation of her name made Denmark laugh, before a bicycle bell interrupted them, and then a screeching of tires of packed gravel. "Anko?"

In the gloom, all Denmark could really see at the distance was a cloud of pale hair under something dark. Then with a pounding of feet, the young lady pounced, catching him in a warm embrace. He returned it happily, although the rounding of the dark case slung over her back made the hug more than a little awkward.

A nervous babble crashed around his ears, drowning him for a second, as Faroes hung on. "Are you alright? I thought I felt something happen to Zealand when I woke up. What's going on? Are you hurt? Iceland rang me just before, but he couldn't say what was happening, and wanted to know if Father was alright. He was so very upset. Is it a raid?"

Disentangling himself from the girl, Denmark smiled down at her. She had grown in the last half century, or so, and it surprised him to see that she now was about as tall as 'Father' Norway. Too bad seeing that she looked far more like a young lady than a girl did not assuage his worry. Leaving her in the middle of a war to Arthur's care was the best he could do, and given Arthur's ability with dependents, he probably was doing very poorly indeed. For a wild moment he suddenly considered turning custody of her over to Sweden, instead.

"We've been invaded," the old nation tried to tell her, "by Germany. Now I want you—,"

This news caused his little amt [55] to step back in what might have been womanly horror, or angry shock. Suddenly the round carry case on her back was brought around, the wickedly sharp barbs of the harpoon she was carrying glinting in the light from Arthur's flashlight. "I'm ready. I'll get all of my men ready. The harbors can be used to—,"

Holding out his hand to stop the flow, Denmark cleared his throat. "No, you're not, min lille vred ged [56]. I'm giving you control of yourself for now. Uncle Arthur will protect you, but you have to promise me not to do anything that will get Germany and the Axis to invade you. Don't incite them. I mean it. That harpoon is for your protection. You can't attack them without provocation."

Her mouth shifted into a mulish pout. "Provocation? He has _invaded_ you, hasn't he?"

Arthur moved closer to the little scene, his boots crunching on gravel. "I think, Faroes, we are speaking of an active invasion of your islands. You need to obey Denmark. I will be occupying your land. I haven't gotten all my plans set up, yet, but I think I need your cooperation—I'm sorry I can't go into greater detail why—,"

Færøerne was a big girl, Denmark knew, and the truth might actually get her to take this seriously. "Yeah, yeah. He can't tell you because while I'm an enemy possession, anything he says around me might get back to Germany, if they decide to question me with a desk drawer or something."

England glared, but the shocked expression on the girl's face showed that the message might have hit home. Not noticing, Arthur continued briskly. "When I come, you'll be able to help with the war, and hopefully, we'll have Denmark out annoying us all again by Christmas."

Her eyes, Norge's eyes in a face much readier for warmth and joy, turned troubled and looked away. "Anko isn't annoying."

Denmark grinned, and hugged her again. "You make sure to tell your Father that, after he fights off Tyskland. Between me and England, we'll drag him back here. You'd like to see see him again, wouldn't you?"

Painted by pale blue shadows, the island seemed just slightly irritated by the situation. "Anko, I'm not a little girl being bullied by either the Netherlands, or you into a bad trading decision. You shouldn't treat me like I'm just looking for a sweet. And don't you start, either, Uncle Arthur. I'm strong enough to make up my own mind."

As the tenth man died over waves far off, the slight trembling in Denmark's hand seemed unwarranted. He'd lost hundreds of men in mere hours. Every day he felt deaths and births. But it was invasion. Not just Jutland, but his beloved harbor, and the stronghold from which he had never been defeated. This was not something that Færøerne should ever experience.

"Sorry, lille vred ged. This one isn't up for discussion. I'm giving you greater powers over your land for a reason," he kissed her lightly on the forehead, transferring the words of high mountains and wind tossed grass for browsing animals, and villages, and towns and fjords, and fishing seas to the girl from where they had originated. They both reeled apart, blinking, but Denmark managed to recover, as he felt his sense of the islands numb. "Now, pay attention to Arthur. I don't know when I'll next see you, so be brave, tough, and don't do anything stupid."

By the time he made it back to Copenhagen, it was too late. The sun rose on a spectacular view of the harbor, marred by Prussia sitting on a pier in the middle of the harbor appearing very pleased with himself. Denmark hopped onto the steel and concrete anyway, knowing that he had no other choice. Documents had been signed. The waves were peach-tinged in the early spring light.

Two hours, he gripped the axe. Maybe things would have been different. People were still fighting in the south. He could take Prussia's head right here, and start a bloodbath in the streets. A German boat was riding tantalizingly close for him to attack it.

"I wouldn't," Prussia grinned insolently.

He snapped black leather covered fingers. Ludwig practically materialized at the street end of the pier. Denmark focused on the far-off sight of a church tower rising a little to the left of the slick blond hair. Heels clicked together, and the younger German saluted. Denmark found himself in possession of the nagging feeling that he had made a mistake in some previous century, but he had no idea which one.

Ludwig cleared his throat: "We are here, after discovering that the Franco-English Alliance intended to break your—,"

"Rigorously defended," Prussia cut in snidely, getting to his feet.

"—neutrality. Osten! Don't be rude. This invasion is for your protection, you understand," he cleared his throat again, and looked nervously back along the pier.

Denmark watched the young man. Something dark indeed. Was this boy _afraid_ of the humans swaggering around in their gray and pale blue? Did he believe the twaddle that he had just trotted out, or was that just a way that the right, honorable, good, painfully correct Lutz could sleep at night?

The Germans watched him, expecting accolades, perhaps? An axe to the gut? A response of some kind? No. Summoning an inner Norge to help him build a wall of ice against the desire to assault them both in a screaming rush that would only end with his people crushed and bleeding, and another round with Prussia, Denmark stared at the two with poorly concealed dislike.

Another clearing of the throat. "Er, curfew restrictions will go into effect, obviously. And well, we'll let you keep your government, of course. This really is just a peaceful occupation for the war time protection of your land. We don't intend to change anything. Ah. Except, well, obviously, we will need to remove, um, seditious elements. Jewish ones. I am sure you are aware of the problem."

The axe bounced off the concrete as Denmark turned to look at the sea. "There is no Jewish problem in Denmark."

Ludwig was probably sweating. "I beg to—,"

"I have a very large axe by my side. I am not a nice person when I am really angry. My land has not been targeted by RAF bombers and I can feed your people, because of that fact," Denmark growled silkily. "You need me, and my cooperation for when you invade Sweden and Finland. My land is at your disposal to go against Norway. There is no Jewish Problem in Denmark."

Ludwig made some choking sounds, but Prussia, who sometimes did know more than he let on stopped him. "Westen, he says there's no problem, then there's no problem. Don't push unless you want to get pushed back, yeah?"

Occupied for his own good, Denmark stared at the Baltic. _Come and get us, England_.

The familiar arm of Prussia threw itself in brotherly affection around the tall Dane's neck, and the shorter man stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. "You knew we were coming, sweetheart."

* * *

**August 1943 – Messina, Italy; Briscari Airfield, Italy  
**

Romano's eyes matched the color of a perfect October apple when viewed through a glass containing red wine. America itched to pick up that glass, and drink from it, but Romano and him drinking was so not a good combination, and Mattie was too busy looking around in awe.

"Alfred, hey, I see a cheese over here! Is that an onion! They have—I haven't seen this good since I went back home last. Oh my goodness, fresh bread! Real, honest-to-goodness fresh bread!"

Lifting his head from the table long enough to break the staring contest with the wine glass, Romano regarded him balefully. "Could'ja stop doing that? Damnit. Feels like there are two of you in this place! Jeeze, I know you've been stuck with the eyebrow bastard's food, but that's no reason—actually, fuckit, it's every reason, isn't it? Restaurant's open for the Americans. On account of my fucking pity for your crappy cooking."

At that, Canada sighed, and made his way back from the patry. Typically, he was not bringing anything with him, probably because he knew their host was not welcoming. Alfred sighed. At some point his brother would gain the backbone to take what he deserved. If there was any cellar raiding to be done, it would fall to Alfred. But that was why he was the Hero, after all.

Romano seemed to think that it was a poor showing as well. "Well? I thought you were in a fucking love affair with one of the cheeses."

Undoing the goggles from around his neck, and sitting back in the chair, Canada laughed. "Sorry, but I know better than to take enemy food, Romano. Nothing against you, I just don't."

The elder Italy brother stared at them. "What the fuck, America? I offer you food, and you're too good for it, or fucking what? You damn cuisine destroying bastard, how dare you!"

Instinctively, Alfred tipped back in the chair. Mattie had limits. Arthur could forget him or think that Canada was America with impunity. He was England, and Canada was his dominion. Other countries could get any reaction from patience to an hour long harangue about everything that Canada had ever observed about them. Since Romano had been met with patience for the last month something was going to snap, soon.

The longer haired blond just smiled. "It's Can-na-dah, Italia Romano. The one with the bear, like Australia? And I'm very sorry, but I once had some Christmas oranges sent by Germans during the Great War [57], and it has rather soured my opinion on food from my enemies. Unless you'd like to try it out first? I'd really love to have some," Alfred never would have believed that wide, guileless eyes could have an effect on the Southern Italian. Possibly it was the intimation that his food was bad.

Either way the brunette rose, and stumped to the cool darkness of the pantry. Alfred amused himself by looking out the shattered windows of the old building into the sunshine-filled bowl of the valley. Troops, theirs, were wandering around those hills, blooded but alive. If he squinted through the cracked glasses riding on his nose he could sea the shining strip of bobbing lights that was the sea. This place was paradise. If it wasn't for the bullet holes riddling the walls, you could not convince Alfred that anything bad could happen here.

But there were bullet holes in the walls. If the wind came from the wrong direction, you could smell dead bodies turning to sacks of rot. Would they ever finish burying them all?

The round wheel of golden cheese, presumably fairly hard, from the way it angrily hit the wood table with a heavy thunk. Romano whipped out a knife, and began the hard work of cutting out a sliver of the desired food, keeping his eyes on the two from across the ocean the kind of deadly glower found on a rattlesnake just before it bit. "There's your fucking cheese, you damn cheese eating bastards."

Matt waved a generous hand over the round. "Have some, please."

Alfred, who was examining the hard wheel grinned up at Romano. "Hey, why is it that color, Romano? Shouldn't it be orange [58]?"

"Chigi! You _idiot_. You stupid bastard! How do you not know anything about food that doesn't have ketchup attached to it? My God, I'm disrespecting this Maiorchino just feeding it to you two ignoramuses!" Romano's knife tore from the hard yellow wheel, and bit into the wood.

Canada just shook his head. "Forgive him. I think either England or the Netherlands dropped him on the head as a child."

The clear belief in the honesty of that statement rather hurt Alfred's feelings, as a thin wedge of cheese was worked from the block by Romano's clever fingers. "_That_ was obvious. The only question is how many damn times," the short Italian stood back from his land's creation, chewing thoughtfully on the crumbling slice. "Fuckin' _travesty_, giving this to you two."

Alfred smiled slightly, as Romano bent once more to slice another thin crumble. This guy was a nice person. Especially after that poison commented that Matthew had made. Most Italian grandmothers that Alfred knew would have kicked both young nations out of their kitchens. Although a half destroyed old restaurant that had once been a hide out for the remainder of the German forces in the area probably did not rank very high on the sacred space of the Italian kitchen scale.

Even so, when Romano handed the slices to the brothers, Canada's slice was considerably smaller. The Italian finally picked up the wine glass, and took a thoughtful sip. Silence reigned, and then the wind shifted. As the other two made faces that nearly mirrored each other in disgust, Alfred suspected that he was probably not concealing his discomfort any better.

Romano, scowling, put down his food. "I'm gonna have damned nightmares about that for a while."

Alfred nodded sympathetically. "I still get them from my civil war, on occasion."

Romano sneered. "Oh yes, your single civil war. How horrible that must have been for you."

The pure condescension caused America to glare. "Yes, my one civil war. Where my states took it into their heads to rip themselves to pieces, or in one charming example continually set one on fire, and I couldn't stop them, because they were carving me up, too. That one civil war."

"Feh," Romano dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "it happens to us all. You get used to it."

Canada, whose closest personal experience with civil war had involved England and France pulling him back and forth, put a hand over his nose, and waited patiently for the wind to turn again. "You have to fight with your brother over a lot of things, don't you, Romano?"

The other's hazel eyes narrowed as the Southern portion of Italy leaned in, scowling. "Oh no. I know where this is going, you koala bastard," America spared a confused glance at Canada, who shrugged at the epithet, "I hate him, and I hate his potato munching ally and I hate his weirdie dead-eyed ally, and I want them all fucking gone, but you're not welcome, and I'm not going to throw Feliciano in your path just because you're feeling like you want Italy. Well fuckit, you bastards. We're tougher than we look."

Canada leaned in as well, closing the space earnestly. "Trust me, I believe you. But I don't want to see anyone hurt any more than they already are. We could end this so quickly—,"

"Yep," Alfred agreed cheerily, taking the opposite position from his brother, and leaning back in his chair, legs stretching insolently into Romano's foot room, just as Mattie pressed forward. Unconsciously, Romano sat back in his chair, shoulders hunching protectively around his spine. "'Cause otherwise, we're going to have to come in all guns ablazing. It's paradise here. Doing that kind of thing at the Gates is wrong. At least, I think it's wrong. Maybe you don't agree, Romano."

Spluttering, Italy looked between the two. "You-you-BASTARDS!"

Sharing another look, the brothers shrugged. "It's quite possible. Who knows if our parents were married? Or even who they are," the words didn't hurt as much as they once had, America decided. "Anyway, thanks for the snack. It must be about time for your siesta, right?"

Canada left the table first, while America kept his feet in Romano's personal space just a bit longer. Then he levered himself up, and with a cheery smile at his host followed his brother outside. It was only once they were outside that Alfred allowed himself to realize that bitterness swilled in the back of his throat.

Canada leaned against some flat topped tree, letting out a breath. When he spoke, it was in English, his voice lilting with the faint traces of French. "Let's give him another four hours to think. I doubt that we'll be getting anywhere today. Arthur has been underestimating him. He'll be tough to turn."

"That was awful, Mattie," Alfred gulped. "I don't think real heroes do things like that."

Matthew took off his glasses, and turned his face towards the leaf interlaced sky, resting his eyes. "This is better than the other way, Alfred. It has to be."

Alfred thought about fields stretching into the deep purple night. Stars and Northern Italy's sobs. Please don't let Romano find out about that. "I suppose you're right. But it was _bullying_. I know better. I thought I did."

"Yeah?" Matthew's voice slipped into the deceptive neutral he used when he saw irony in any situation.

Alfred compressed his lips, thinking. He kicked at the gravel, but that yielded almost nothing. The earth was ancient here, and tired. All it wanted was the bright sun and sleep. "Hypothetically, murder is worse than the threat of murder, right?" he began, testing the theoretical ground ahead of him by using Canada as a sounding board. This was an old rhythm, and the way they had healed things between them after 1812. "But why is murder bad? Because it stops people from contributing their bit to the length of their lives, right? So, murder doesn't work like that for us. But the threat of murder works because you're making a man's own mind draw his conclusions. So his thoughts murder him, just a little, rather than all at once."

Matt shifted against his tree. "Alfred, I know what you're getting at, but it's not like that. Don't you remember what it was like last time we took on the continent? Sure, you were only there for the final bout, but don't you remember how awful it was? The pain of all those people? Don't you remember Versailles? We broke Austria's marriage. We humiliated Germany. We dissolved Prussia. Do you want that to be Italy's fate, too?"

Alfred shook his head. Still, that did not make him feel any better. "He said his brother would never leave Germany. I mean, ignoring all the 'potato bastard' and 'idiot air head' comments, he really cares about what happens to Northern Italy. Doesn't making him turn on Veneziano count as doing something like breaking up a marriage?"

Quiet laughter bubbled from Canada. Soon Alfred caught the giggle too, going over what he had just said several times. Okay bad phrasing. Very, very, very bad phrasing. Matt wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes. "I—we'll figure something out, right? It's going to be rough, no matter what we do. But I want this to be my last trip to Europe for anything other than a pleasure jaunt for a long time," he slid down the tree, to sit in the dirt. "What do you think we're going to be doing to the Germans, if we win?"

Alfred shrugged. "Russia says he'd like to help put Ludwig on the right path. He probably has some ideas. Um, you've heard France's plans, right?"

Matt nodded, his mouth a tight line. "I never would have thought that I would be so horrified by the thought of ribbons in my life."

They both did the one thing that they had promised themselves never to do again, and took time to contemplate France's suggestion once more, from every terrifyingly fascinating angle. Alfred stopped first, closing his eyes tightly, and shaking his head rapidly. "No, no, bad imagination! Wasn't Francis sort of _the_ diplomat of Europe once upon a time? I mean, his ideas aren't what I would call diplomatic."

Canada snorted. "Yes, but you also think that shooting people when they get better hands than you in cards is being diplomatic about your displeasure."

"Oh, okay, that one time when I was trying to mess with England's head, and and make that one comment, and you hold it over me for the rest of my life," Alfred crossed his arms in a pout.

Matt just grinned, before looking thoughtful. "I know England says he wants everything to work out to a good old fashioned partitioning. But, um, partitioning has never sounded like a good, old fashioned anything."

Alfred shrugged. "Well, it doesn't have to be horrible. Versailles was an absolute picnic in comparison to some of the stories England told me to give me nightmares."

Trailing a finger in the dust, Canada doodled some sort of abstract design. "Ah, the bad old days. I'm glad that Arthur never thought that I needed that kind of education."

"And he wonders why I never liked his bedtime stories," Alfred laughed loudly.

Canada just shook his head. "Any louder, and he'll hear you."

Yeah. He would. The wind shifted again, and the brothers grimaced in unison. Alfred turned away. "I'm going for a drive. Anything to get out of the stink. You want to come?"

Declining, Matthew continued to draw in the dirt for a few moments, before rising, and dusting off his hands. "Chances are when you go back to command for your Jeep, I'll end up seeing something that I'm supposed to do, and I just want a little peace right now."

Alfred nodded, and began the slippery, scree loosening decent into the valley below, ignoring the road, as he let his boots take him over the earth with the delight of a young boy again. If only things could forever remain this simple.

But they could not. Pressuring South Italy into armistice was better than the alternative. He knew it was better than the alternative. Much. The alternative made him sick afterward, while he was just sick during every burst of fifteen minutes with Romano, one of the most willing prisoners that Alfred ever had the pleasure of meeting.

Still, he thought, getting behind the wheel of the first empty Jeep he sighted, what it was like from Romano's end? He couldn't imagine it. How it must be to be surrounded by people like Germany one moment, and then have America and Canada grinning over his shoulder the next.

The road rolled out before America, rutted, poorly repaired, but open and free. For now, at least. He headed south and west, trying to catch the setting sun, feeling the wind ruffling Nantucket familiarly. For a while his mind cared only about the motion of the car, and use of the clutch. In a land without thought worries, guilt, and anger disappeared, floating away in the clouds of dust behind him. Nothing could be better.

A string of potholes, and the possible death of his suspension shattered his free and easy world before he knew it. Slamming on the breaks, he got out of the Jeep, ready to crawl under it, when all his thoughts screamed at him. A stand of scrubby trees, the wide open airfield lurked.

Grabbing his gun for no real reason, he ran up the hill, only to reach a patch of earth filled with rotting, swelling bodies, and the ever rolling tides of human suffering. He had been here. He had been here. This was how prisoners of war—this was how—be practical. Be cool. This was war. People did horrible things in war. Nations did horrible things in war.

Something moved in the middle of the field. In a dream, America walked towards the man standing there. A wine glass tipped in mocking salute. "Ipocrita. Per sempre un ipocrita, Stati Uniti d'America [59]."

Alfred pretended not to understand. "I tried to make it quick. Germany was there the first time. He dragged—,"

"I know," Romano drained his glass. "My idiot brother is an idiot, but everybody loves him. Even sadistic potato bastards, who are going to fucking turn on him the way the war is going, because they are going to fucking _lose_. When the wurst suckers lose, I don't know if you know this, sheltered assassinito [60] that you are, they don't lose with fucking grace and dignity. It's always been this way. An angry spud chewing Holy Roman Emperor marches down, trying to take my damned cities, and rips up Feliciano in-fucking-stead. Can you even picture how long this has been happening? Can you? Nothing ever freaking changes. Ever. Peace. War. It's all the same after a while. Just us spitting in each other's food."

Alfred surveyed the field. In the dead of night he lifted his pistol to Feliciano's face. It had been a Colt. Good, old, heavy. He'd had it for longer than he could remember, and it had not been standard issue. The grip fit his hand the same way it his jacket fit on his shoulders. It belonged there.

"I hate you," he told the air. "I want to be home. I want to stop dieing in the Pacific. I want to stop dying over here. I want to stop being involved. I want to stop this. I want to be who I _was_. You're all _sick_. I hate you."

Clearly prepared for the occasion, Romano poured more blood into his glass, which lit like a garnet, as the westering sun touched it. "Che. Fucking mutual this feeling is."

Germany's fist had come out of nowhere. Some how, the knots biding the massive blond had come undone. He was just supposed to watch. There were only two of his people here, and Alfred had told himself that only one person needed to die with their troops. For his troops. For Matt's boys. For everyone who had been lost taking this shitty, stupid, pointless island.

The fist cracked his glasses, bruising him like a boxer fighting for the ring. The broad shouldered man had already put his body between Alfred and Italy, and he took advantage of the dazed confusion to rain down two more blows. Then Alfred shot the German's kneecaps off.

It was an old trick, learned in Chicago, from boot-leggers in a territory battle. Italians on one side, Irish on another, and Alfred had been standing up for the Irish that night. A mistake, as the cynical Romano would have been quick to point out, had he not other things on his mind.

Draining the glass, Romano stared at the ochre of the earth for a long while. "My boss is a fucking lunatic, you know, fatty bastard."

America tried to laugh. "Well, I don't think it would be very good of me to be trying to unseat a sane man, doing a good job."

Bending swiftly, Romano grasped a handful of the dirt before letting it slide through his fingers. He watched the way it fell for a long moment. "Che. You can't do a good job. Not with this stuff. The soil's fucking ancient. Tired. Dead. No one in their right mind would want it. Hah. The last Roman kingdom. Fucking romantic dreams."

The bleeding wound in Germany's back was just visible as a dark blob drenching the back of that disgusting Nazi jacket by the weak light of human flashlights. The only real surprise was that Romano's knife was no longer embedded there. Blubbering, North Italy tried to inch his way across the flattened ground desperate to reach Germany as the first shots rang out, and Fascists died. Fascists who had surrendered, and been told that they would be treated humanely. America kicked the twitching form of Germany right in the knife wound.

"He asked me to stop," Alfred whispered, looking at the gun in his hand. America had just shot more Italians. "Stop hurting Germany."

Romano sneered. "That's my retard brother. So, eroe [61], do you still hate the continent?"

America thought about death in the night, about the villain he sometimes felt take over his head, about Romano's cynicism, about the destruction of families that this war was happily achieving, about the hunger lining empty ration books, about air raids, about partitioning, about peace treaties, and about a man working himself free of his bonds to protect another man, who had nothing but a sweet smile. Why didn't their humans act like that? Why didn't they act like that?

"As much as you do, I think."

Perhaps genuinely surprised, Romano looked up at America, only to be met by a brilliant smile. He glared back down at his bottle of wine. "Feh. At this rate you'll have me joining your blasted side through sheer damn optimism," Romano opined. "Fucking crazy bastard."

* * *

**Footnotes and Annotations**

**

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**[1] - The status of Prussia as the smallest Empire in Europe made it practically invisible to the three to four other great powers of the day: the Russian Empire, the British Empire, the Austrian Empire, and sometimes the French Empire. Although Prussia had been _the_ military force of Central Europe, it was usually off training soldiers, or stealing towns that looked cool from its neighbors whenever treaty time came around. Which meant that Prussia ended up getting ignored while people were trying to parcel land around, or it was time to redraw boundaries, and make trade negotiations. This really got to be a real problem when the strong, militant nation looked around, and saw that it wasn't getting as much respect as it should, and there was a very weak, very arrogant aristocrat to the south that had left it out of the treaties when they were dismantling Napoleonic France. For some reason, either the great powers had forgotten about the existence of the land army that had taken down France (Russian troops did not count, obviously), or they had thought that it, along with the tattered remains of the Holy Roman Empire would be properly absorbed into the neighboring empires.

[2] - 'Geilchen' is a nonsense word made from the German word 'geil' which means awesome/sexy/horny/cool and the suffix '-chen' which is used to make things diminutive in German. Basically he's calling Gilbird his 'little awesome.'

[3] - 'Vögelchen' is German for 'tiny bird/birdie'

[4] - 'Du verdammte Schweinehund' is German for 'You damned bastard!' Schweinehund' literally means 'pigdog' and while a cat may not care about its ancestry, and Gilcat is almost certainly a bastard, calling one a dog of any sort is an insult of the first water.

[5] - Sweden is not the only country that has married the Hohenzollerns and discovered that the new female that they received had more ambition than wished for. Frederike Sophia Wilhelmina of Prussia married Willem V of Orange (ruler of Netherlands). He was a weak-minded man, believed to be wanting nothing more than wine women and song. This meant that his wife had an easy time of controlling him. Unfortunately for her, the French Revolution was happening at the same time as her marriage, and the Dutch, never a people for royalty anyway (it's such a Spanish thing to care about) were thinking that the French had a rather good thing going, and France had sort of been a good friend to the Netherlands in times past. So, the Dutch revolted, gave the royal family the boot, and started getting down to being a Republic. However, they did not realize that Prussian princesses enjoy a good coup as much as the French. Wilhelmina went to her brother, Wilhelm II of Prussia, sweetly asked to borrow his army, and marched right back to the Netherlands. At which point, the republicans thought about the choice between living in France to oust the Royal couple another day, or getting gutted on the end of a Prussian bayonet. Most chose the France option. The republicans did come back, and kick the royals out for a second time, enjoying a marvelous revolution and occupation under Napoleon, while Willem went to England, and Wilhelmina and her children hung around in various German states, only to come back again after Napoleon had been kicked out of her country, and settled down.

[6] - There have also been many Hohenzollern women who have not done anything great or interesting with their lives. The next Prussian princess that married into the Dutch royal line, for example, was much less impressive on the power-playing front, and the lady that married Nikolas I of Russia was practically eclipsed by her spouse, but Gilbert forgets those ones.

[7] - 'brötchen' is German for (you probably guessed that 'little' is involved somewhere) literally 'little bread' and is used to describe rolls. Usually you'll buy a few each afternoon/evening, and have them for breakfast next morning spread with whatever your preferred form of fat is (butter, schmaltz, old bacon grease, don't be picky), and probably some sort of meat (thinly sliced ham or schinken if you like salty tastes with your breakfast, leberwurst, or a slice off that old blood pudding you might have lying around) and/or a cheese slice on top. This might be an anachronism. I have not been able to find much on the German food culture of retired/off duty military men in the 1800s. This breakfast seemed simple enough to pass for Prussia's meager culinary skill, and the idea of a home in Berlin without brötchen in it is just weird to me. Yes, I know they exist. Just as I know that it is _possible_ to live in Boston and not be obsessed with crushing and destroying the Yankees. He might just go for a simple dark grain bread cut from the loaf for breakfast, I suppose. Still, it probably has seeds of some sort crusted on top, because Gil is both cheap, and cares about his bird.

[8] - Ludwig is exaggerating the problem, but only slightly. Probably thanks to the fragmentary nature of what was left of the Holy Roman Empire after the Thirty Years' War, the states all around and within the HRE ended up claiming cities and towns here and there in a piecemeal fashion, with miles and miles of 'someone else's God damned territory' between them. Most of the countries and principalities stopped doing this as Germany began its slow, painful reunification process, and started demanding tariffs for crossing every border, but the Prussians did not stop doing it. Possibly because their idea of paying tolls, tariffs and border taxes was telling the person armed with a longbow to come over here and talk to the minister of the treasury, Mister "My sword in your gut, as I steal your purse." Within Prussian borders, by the time of this scene, everything worked like the most beautiful piece of clockwork from Zurich, and unlike the rest of the German states, there was a cohesion and unity to the various sections of the kingdom. A book printed in Berlin could end up in East Prussia without any tax being paid for its movement other than for use of the toll roads. Prussia had federalism down, and the rest of Germany wanted some.

[9] 'Bruder, da gibts keine Wahl! Ich müß der Deutsche Bund _sein_!' is German for 'Brother, there is no choice! I _have_ to become the German Confederation!' I chose to stress the 'being' part of the German sentence rather than the imperative of the English translation because when you start to yell in German it always seems to me that the stress naturally starts to fall on the final word. Anybody who is actually competent in German in the audience willing to confirm or deny this would be greatly appreciated.

[10] - Back to that minor detail of Prussia getting overlooked by Austria when Austria started organizing things at the end of the Napoleonic wars: The Austrian Empire believed that it would naturally absorb the former states of the Holy Roman Empire, which had been finally officially dissolved by Napoleon in the creation of the Confederacy of the Rhine (remember waaaaay back in Chapter Two when Denmark mentioned 'Rhinen Forbund'? It was a big deal for the Germans). It would probably also absorb the Kingdom of Prussia, in due course. If it had to. Guhhh. Prussians.

However, Austria had not realized what a unifying force hating the French can be, and the fractured, fractious German states had meshed their borders together into large territories, were mostly following the same legal codes within those bounds, and did not want to become part of that tottering, weak Empire that had abandoned them to die in the killing fields of the Thirty Years' War nearly two centuries prior. But nationalism was at work within the German Territories as well, and German nationalists were thinking that there were an awful lot of people in the Austrian Empire who spoke German, and shared the same cultural ties, and what not. Perhaps they should become part of Germany, because everything that spoke German should become part of Germany. Even those slightly Danish-sounding Germans up north. If they were admitting platt deustch, Austria wasn't that big of a stretch. And think of all that rich land the Empire is rioting over. Think about it for a few seconds.

The problem was that there were a whole lot of German speakers in Prussia, too. More and more as nationalism swept through, in fact. They did not want to join anything that had an Empire that could not keep itself under any sort of control, and invariably would think that it was better than Prussia. So, two parties of thought on unification emerged: the big plan, incorporating all German speakers, and letting the Austrians rule the lands, or the small plan, which meant that only the strongest and most stable German states joined together in a confederation, under the auspices of Prussia, of course. The small plan won.

[11] - One of the nastier sides of nationalism, already alluded to, is that not only does it scare the pants off of multi-national empires, but single nation empires suddenly go to great lengths to remain single nation empires. Prussia and Germany engaged in a brutal campaign against Polish culture and Polish rights, given how many Poles were in Prussia from the partitioned lands, and more were fleeing from Russia (it still was much better to live in Prussia than Russia if you were Polish, Catholic and/or politically minded). Oddly enough, perhaps because there were fewer, or maybe they were quieter about their non-German mannerisms, or Lithuanians and Poles were still too well integrated for Prussians to tell the difference, the crackdown was not as harsh on Lithuanians. That still did not mean that it was a good life in Prussia. Just as there was a sudden big push to go explore the Americas during and after the Thirty Years' War, there is a reason why boat loads of European immigrants started coming over to America in the 1800s. They were trying to get away from the mess that Europe was becoming.

[12] - The First War of Schleswig basically consisted of: Various German states and Prussia winning engagements against the Danish; Austria getting scared that Prussia was going to acquire all of Denmark as its property; calling in the International community; England imagining what trade in the Baltic would look like with Prussia owning the Danish straits; and then Russia, France, and England frantically everyone to calm down, and get Prussia the hell out of Denmark. That one went over realllly well, as Denmark discovered during the Second War

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[13] - 'Польша' is Russian for 'Poland' and is pronounced Pol'sha.

[14] - In Chapter One I mentioned Belarus' history giving me an almighty headache. This is part of the reason why. There was a third minority in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, the Ruthenians. These people were their own people, a little bit of Ukraine's people, and mostly the White Russians. They are as closely as I can figure out, the original ethnic group from which the unifying aspects of White Russian-ness come from. And remember, not all White Russians are in Belarus, and not all the people in Belarus are white Russians. Most of the books I've read have used the term interchangeably with Belorussians. That might say something about the quality of books I have. Anyway, at the time of the steam-rollering of Russification, Belorussians fought along side Poles and Lithuanians, and were symbolized by the Archangel Michael, champion of God.

[15] - 'Wolny Kościół, Rosja' is Polish for 'Free the Catholic Church, Russia.'

[16] - As part of trying to eliminate the Polishness from the Polish partition, Prussia and Russia suddenly discovered a bonding activity between the two countries. Prussia ran the railways of the East, and to areas that were having problems with Polish strikes, and protests. So, the Prussians gave the Russian soldiery free use of the rail, and that way the Russians could come in and burn the Poles out.

[17] - 'meinen Freund, was machst du heir' is German for 'What are you doing her, my friend?' At this time, still smarting over that Napoleon business, France and Prussia were in a bit of a rivalry. One of the ways that this manifested itself was that France became a proponent of a free Polish state, and even sent foreign troops into combat for Poland during the uprisings. These troops were known as the Zouaves of Death, and they were basically a French trained militia of Polish sympathizers who fought until they were brutally slaughtered by the Russian Army.

[18] - 'Walka mnie' is Polish for 'fight me!'

[19] - 'Ладно, Польша' is Russian for 'Okay, Poland' and is pronounced 'Ladno, Pol'sha'

[20] - The Ottoman Empire (probably because it did not want to recognize Russia as even existing) never recognized the Partitions of Poland, and still kept its Polish-Lithuanian embassy open. It was the only country of the "civilized" world not to recognize the Partitions. Just something to think about, the next time you want to try writing Sadiq. He does things other than steal baby Italies, after all.

[21] - 'Prūsija' is Lithuanian for 'Prussia.' Sounds a bit manlier than Poland's variant, doesn't it?

[22] - 'Rusai' is Lithuanian for 'Russia'

[23] - 'Я видел, как ты, Полвша! Не помочь ему, Литва!' is Russian for 'I saw you Poland! Do not help him, Lithuania!' and is pronounced 'Ya videl kak ty, Pol'sha! Ne pomoch' yemu, Litva!'

[24] - 'wieszatiel' was one of the Polish epithets for Muravyov. It means 'hangman'

[25] - 'Мало земли императорской России, не говорить с ним. ... Привести последние повстанцев' is Russian for 'Little Land of Imperial Russia, do not speak to him. ... Bring out the last insurgents' at least, I _think_ it does. Corrections from a Russian speaker/reader would be dear to me. The pronounciation is 'Malo zemli imperatorskoĭ Rossii, ne govoritʹ s nim. Privesti poslednie povstantsev.' The choice for 'Little Land' is based on the fact that tsars were referred to as 'Little Father' as a sort of endearment for the ruler. Something you would say to express your love and appreciation for them. It sounds like the kind of address Ivan would prefer, although my translation could be miles into the wrong side of the woods.

[26] - 'Это для вас, России' is Russian for 'This is for you, and Russia' and is pronounced 'eto dlya vas, Rossii.'

[27] - 'Дьявол никогда не умирает' is Russian for 'The devil never dies.' It is pronounced 'Dʹyavol nikogda ne umiraet.' I wanted to use a plural here, but I couldn't find the plural form of 'devil' that wasn't a transliteration of the English, 'devils' or 'demons.' It works in the singular, too, so I ended up keeping it singular.

[28] - 'Prikąsk liežuvį, Prūsija' is Lithuanian for 'Shut up, Prussia.' (I hope, again, if you speak it, drop me a line.)

[29] - 'Karalienė' is Lithuanian for 'Queen.'

[30] - 'Giesmės' is Lithuanian for 'Hymns'

[31] - 'Guten Abend, Fraulein. Ich heiße Norddeutscher Bund. Uuf! Nicht geil, liebchen! Ich mag meinen Hände' is German for 'Good evening, miss. My name is Confederation of Northern Germany. Uuf! Hey, not nice, darling. I like my hands.'

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[32] - 'Karjala' is Finnish for Karelia, a Southern province of Finland, which it lost to the Russians as a reparation for being on the losing side of WWII. Thanks to reviewer Anon for coming up with a far more detailed explanation: "North and South Karelia belong to Finland even today, the Karelian Isthmus and Ladoga Karelia were lost to Russia during the Winter war (but people who used to live there were evacuated elsewhere to Finland, so Finland didn't lost them), and the area that is usually referred as East-Karelia is and has always been Russia's." Since I'm not certain if I'm going to do anything more than obliquely mention the loss of Karelia and evacuation, this kind of distinction is useful to have. Reviewers willing to give me better material than my poor research finds, or explain things in a manner that actually explains them are beloved.

[33] - 'Ei, Ivan, en huoli kieltäsi' is Finnish for 'No, Ivan, I reject your language.' Thanks to reviewer Anon for correcting this translation.

[34] - 'Eesti' is Estonian for 'Estonia' although it can also be used in Finnish as well.

[35] - 'Sisu' is a Finnish word for something like 'grit/determination.' My current favorite definition for this comes from one of the wry Finnish blogs I read, 'Masks of Eris.' 'The overwhelming desire to go out of this world biting it in the jugular.'

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[36] - for those of you who read this before I did more than sleep deprived edits, you might have noticed that my original metaphor was 'like a bad toupee on an egg.' This is why it is always good to check what you write in the wee hours. I've had some awkward descriptions in my time, but that one was just hilariously weird. My reviewers should call me out on these things.

[37] - Norway had declared independence from Sweden five months ago, and the reaction from the Swedish government was "What? You can't do that! Oh, you can. I see. Um, give us a little time to think about it." A peaceful resolution to a problem like this was nearly unheard of, and both sides sent troops to the borders, in case they needed to declare war on one another. Trust the Nordics to be prepared for any violent negotiation.

[38] - As mentioned above, Norway offered the new Norwegian crown to any one of the Swedish princes that the Swedish king cared to name. However, King Oskar II politely declined, possibly because this might have created conflicts of interest between Norway and it's ally, England, which would have meant an unstable country sharing Sweden's Northwest border, and probably war. After the mess of the 19th century, Europe was content to have civil unrest, rather than all out war.

[39] - When Sweden turned down the offer, the Norwegians went to the Danish Royal family, and asked them. The Danes, like any good royal family, were happily exporting their princes to other countries (Greece also had a good run with the prince they got), and agreed. King Hakkon VII turned out to be a pretty good king, and is remembered fondly for his resistance to German demands that Norway follow Denmark's example and capitulate during WWII.

[40] - After the consolidation of Germany (and the associated Wars of Schleswig), Sweden, which had been charily trying not to take any side, became trading partners with Germany. As Norway was exploring trading ties with England at the same time, this proved to be a further bone of contention between the two countries, since England and Germany were in competition to become the leading powers in Europe.

[41] - Russia was obviously coming apart at the seams, and had been since the Crimean War. There was some talk of Sweden trying to re-occupy Finland, and troops were moved to the border, just in case they would be needed to fight the Russians. The Swedish national consciousness has revolved around 'just in case we need to fight the Russians' since 1719.

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[42] - 'Ruostin kuningaskunta' is Finnish for 'Kingdom of Sweden'

[43] - When I was a wee tot, I attended a christening of a friend born to Danish and Swedish parents. Since there were a lot of Germans, Swedes and Danes at the event, I was rather lost when someone made a comment about how the gifts (in particular one of those wooden Swedish horses, given by the Danish set of grandparents to the child) were probably the first step in friendship between the two countries, and heard a German guest reply that at least no one had made a Swedish drink for the invitees (I remember a LOT of people finding this comment funny, which goes to show a lot of things about my family and it's friends). I had no idea what they were talking about, and asked. This lead to a very glossy picture of Dano-Swedish relations, and a horrifying explanation of the Thirty Years' War from the German perspective. The Schwedentrunk, or Swedish drink, was a favorite method of the Swedish Army for punishing Germans (and presumably anyone else who they crossed), extorting money from Germans, and soliciting unwanted sex from German women (I didn't find out about that cheery part until I started doing Hetalia-oriented research). What you do is you tie a person up, force their mouth open and pour a charming mixture of shit, urine, rotting foodstuff and water into their mouths, and force them to swallow or drown. Then, when their stomachs are in agony from the poison that has just been forced into them, you poke and prod at them. Berwald has a lot of nasty little skeletons in his past.

[44] - You will notice that Norway doesn't have to sing anything, when using magic, but Finland does. Firstly, he doesn't use magic that much, and so is rusty. Secondly, the major hero of Finnish epic is an old bard (by the name of Väinämöinen). In order to do anything remotely magical for the Finns, you have to sing for it, basically. Music has a long association with magic in ancient Nordic tradition in general, but times have changed. Sweden just doesn't see the point, being the warrior end of sword and sorcery type tales, himself.

[45] - 'Svíþjóð' is old Norse for 'Sweden'

[46] - The Lotta Svärd (for those who haven't read the footnotes to Mid-Winter Luck) were the Finnish corps of female nurses and general care takers in the army after Finland declared independence. These brave women were notorious for not touching firearms and being engaged only in non-violent actions, such as healing and bandaging the wounded. To attack one of the Lotta Svärd was considered as heinous as attacking a member of the Red Cross. They did get attacked, of course. The Red Army would have been on trial at Nuremberg, had Soviet Russia signed the the Geneva Convention (there was discussion of it, after the mass rape of East Germans had been uncovered, but it was decided by the Allies that legally they did not have much footing, and no one really wants to destroy the myth of heroic liberators by adding that they and their friends _also_ committed atrocities on a terrifying scale). However, while placing Sweden with the Lotta probably would have kept him out of the main body of the fighting, while allowing him to help Finland, it would send a certain message about his manliness.

[47] - The commander of the Swedish Northern Army had planned to get his command lost in Finland (this is diplomatic speak for sending a portion of the Swedish army to fight the Russians), but before he managed to get everything arranged, someone snitched to the Riksdag, and he was told to keep his men on his side of the border. After that, the army's store houses on the border became Finnish supply depots, basically. Almost 1/3 of the army's supplies wound up in Finland before then end of the Winter War. Incidentally, for people who like diplomatic euphemisms, the Hungarian Volunteers who headed to Finland (and that was a trip and a half, given the geographic location of Hungary, Soviet battle zones, and Finland. Some Hungarians had to get to Finland via England) told customs that they were going on vacation to ski.

[48] - Up until the German invasion, Norwegian neutrality had been enforced almost as rigorously as Swiss neutrality. England and France had planned to send military aid to Finland, but the only easy way to get to Finland geographically, without stomping through German controlled land (which would have rather tied up French and English troops, while not helping the Finns) was through Norway. Norway said, and followed through with that promise, that it would shoot any belligerent vessel in its waters, and any pieces of foreign armies that landed would be put on boats home, or shot. It did not help that the Swedish government was not receptive to non-neutral nations coming to Finland via their shared border, either.

[49] - 'Danmark! Lag meg være' is Norwegian for 'Denmark! Let me go!'

[50] - It rarely snows in Denmark, or in the rest of Central Europe, for that matter. As someone from a Great Frozen North, I take unholy delight in Europeans freaking out over 3 cm (a little over an inch) of snow.

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[51] - Danish intelligence had actually warned the Danish government of the imminent invasion several days beforehand. They knew it was going to happen either the 8th or the 9th, but not what time. The government did little to prepare.

[52] - 'Schwedenschwuler' is a combination of the German word 'Schweden' meaning 'Sweden' and 'Schwuler' meaning 'gay.' It has nice alliteration (Sh-veh-den-sh-voo-leh-rr), but given the connotation of Schwuler, it's not a nice thing to say.

[53] - Norway shot people out of its sea, as mentioned earlier, in the interests of neutrality. While Iceland declared itself neutral, it did not defend itself as vigorously, and Axis boats often tried to take refuge in Icelandic territory. This worked well, unless England was hot on the trail, in which case, the navy would just follow the German boats into Icelandic waters, and destroy them there.

[54] - 'Grønland' is Danish for 'Greenland'

[55] - 'amt' is Danish for 'county'

[56] - 'min lille vred ged' is Danish for 'my angry little goat.' The goat is a symbol of Faroes, and my Denmark names things.

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[57] - Fun 'facts' about WWI from dimly remembered British novels! Please keep in mind the source, but anyway, as trench warfare dragged on, supplies ran out during the first war, and at one point, during Christmas if the story is to be believed, the Germans lobbed fruit over to the Allied side. How lovely. Too bad that the food had been pisoned, and/or filled with old razor blades. Some of the fruit was even safe to eat, further demoralizing the enemy when some soldiers would stay alive, and others would die from the same "shipment" of apples. Not that morale wasn't pretty down at that point already, because the men had just fought each other tooth and nail for some food, only to discover that the winner was killed. Even if this never really happened, it does sound like the kind of thing Prussia, if not Germany, would find very funny.

[58] - Another legacy from the First War: Kraft American Cheese - guaranteed not to go bad in the can. As someone who learned how to make cheese when they were young, and comes from a place where they teach kids how to make cheese when very young, I can safely say that this is not cheese. It is a sin, and the perversion of all innocent milk curds.

[59] - 'Ipocrita. Per sempre un ipocrita, Uniti Stati d'America.' is Italian for 'Hypocrite. Forever a hypocrite, United States of America'

[60] - 'assassinito' is butchered Italian for 'little assassin'

[61] - 'eroe' is Italian for 'hero'

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So, here's my question about Belarus: To me, she's only IC when she's obsessing on Ivan, but during the 1800s the White Russians were not fond of any attempts to Russianize them. What do you think is the right characterization for her?

~ MF


	6. That Which Is Defeated

**Author's Note**: I feel as though I have to apologize. This is the only chapter in _Eight Men_ that will deal with the First World War, and it is not even doing so directly after the small slice on the Eastern Front. The Great War deserves a fic in similar scope as _Eight Men_ all to itself. It truly does, and I'm probably never going to write that fic. The history of Poland and Lithuania is completely, excuse the Prussian, fucked by WWI (yeah, because it was all sunshine and roses before). But this one dealt a _total_ whammy to the the countryside of Eastern Europe, Polish politics, and Lithuanian politics all at once. Bad times for the LietPol shippers. Canada and Australia are Gods of the Western Front that the Allies should be thankful were on their side. Also it's Prussia's last grand moment. WWII is Germany's war, but the first one belongs to Prussia. The plethora of fics ideas that have spawned mean that I have oodles of head cannon. It might come out rather strongly (and some more subtly, perhaps?) Challenge my interpretation or ask me a question!

So, to explain, for those running around, looking up massive destructive battles, mind numbing tales of horror and wondering what Prussia was doing on the _Western_ Front*, why can't MF read a map: Here's a quick guide to the way Prussian society was constructed. It was the largest province of Germany, and basically was the German Army. You had the Prussian Army, and then a few divisions from everywhere else in Germany, thanks to general conscription. Most of the top brass were Prussian, most of the infantrymen were Prussian. Prussia had been built for war, and unlike pansy Austria, hadn't gotten indolent and stupid about picking its officers**. If you were a Prussian guy you had two choices before you, university and the army. And once you were done with university you should go into the army to build a well-rounded character. This means that Prussia ends up doing duty in a lot of places, because in my head he's with every Prussian commander. If you look at Prussian Patriotism, yeah, that's how they feel about the guy. He has the best humans ever! /end Prussia enthusiasm for his awesome people, because German nationalism is scary folks.

Now, could everyone excuse me while I start sweating testosterone for a minute? To give you a good idea about the general line of the Central powers (as they believe in the _Iliad_: the bigger an ass-kicker your opponent is, the more epic it is to beat them): Imagine the Swedish Army at the height of its power under Gustavus Adophus. I know I've gushed about that long enough for everyone to have a good idea about it. Same idea, only this time we have a state that can actually feed and pay everyone attached to the army (Well, the civilian Swedes helping the army fixed their lack of money by looting, torturing and generally pillaging, so maybe that should make the Prussian army less scary). Now, the Hungarians were also all kinds of Boss (sadly for them they had terrible bosses, but we'll get to the Austrian commanders), and the Bulgarians were not the kind of people you would want to mess with (ask Romania-oh those poor Balkan states and their continuous war crimeage on each other), and, oh yeah, this little thing called the Ottoman Empire was on the side of the Central Powers, too. The Central Powers are a who's who of Bad Asses in War. Please imagine this, and then imagine exactly what kind of failure Austria must have been to basically drag down the rest**. We'll get to EPICFAIL!Austria in the footnotes.

* What was Prussia doing on the Western Front, you ask? Variously kicking ass, schooling France, discovering Canadians are _a lot_ tougher than they look, bitch slapping England a bit 'til he brings out the Dominions, flying like an ace, discovering that the only thing tougher than a Canadian on the ground is one in a plane, finding out that Australians are stubborn strong sons of bitches, and running from a koala so evil it should be renamed the 'kol'ala. Ludwig was doing a lot of this, too, plus poison gas, but oddly, German commanders tended to be sent to the East to help out the mess that Austria had gotten into, while Prussian ones were busy owning France in the West. With poison gas.

** Of course, the defeat of the Central Powers has waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay more to it than Austriasux! Prussia wuz here! Just as, yeah, I make them sound like guys to root for (always vote pro-Manry), and then you find things like the pyramids of skulls that Bulgarians left in their wake, or German soldiers shooting Austrians in the back, that whole thing with Belgium that possibly didn't happen, or at least happened with reason, or perhaps did really happen, but it was WORSE than we think (Gee, thanks British propaganda for messing with events for the sake of a good story and making every source for this cheery war crime unreliable. I luv you, too), or how the Magyars took towns and cities. Yeah. Relax guys, America's on the Allied side, so they have _nothing_ to be ashamed about! Actually, there is very little work done on war crimes of the Allied powers during this war (or at least, I'm finding it hard to find much). This is a combination of the Germans committing a series of war crimes so vast that they are known as 'the Rape of Belgium,' because you just can't compete with that (except for the Germans ended up competing with themselves a quarter of a century later. Good old Germany, defending that title. It really had some great competition from the Red Army, too) and the lulz of winning. But this clusterfuck of a basically sarcastic explanation of WWI is why it stinks that I just don't have the time in Eight Men to go into this war in the detail it deserves.

**Warnings:** Um, GerIta fans, be prepared for what Germany did to Italy after the Southerners finished joining the Allies,** but otherwise, this is a light chapter in comparison to the last two. **Warning for Hungary being all Magyar Manry against Russia and the Ukraine, Prussia wangst, hastily suppressed memories of a civil war, tension between Sweden and Finland, Sweden being neutral, occupied tension between Norway and Denmark, and the German withdrawal from Northern Italy.

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**Eight Men**

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**Historical Notes**

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**The Carpathians** - Brusilov Offensive was the major successful Russian campaign of the war. Beginning in June, General Brusilov ordered a fast, brutal artillery bombardment of weak points in the Austro-Hungarian lines, and then sent the Russian soldiers to attack the few survivors. It completely broke down the southern end of the Eastern front, and then the Imperial army was on the move. However, thanks to political in-fighting in Russian command, the advance was extremely ragged. When Brusilov asked for more divisions of the army his fellows blocked the movement of troops by dithering. When he didn't need the reserves, he was given the extra men, whose main purpose became cannon fodder that blocked the swampy northern end of the advance, and the mountainous passes of the southern end. Yay. Oh, and those mountains? Turns out that fighting Hungarians on their home turf is a bad move.

Now, the Austro-Hungarian Empire was known for being less than competent in WWI, and this reputation is not entirely without merit. The Dual Monarchy had three armies, one joint army, and then two armies that respectively served the royalty of Hungary and Austria. These two were better equipped and trained because military politics in the Empire often lead to the Hungarians and Austrians fighting over the defense budget and trying to get the biggest portion allotted to their men. So, the main army was underfunded, and made up of strong national divisions. Strong national divisionry isn't a problem in a well-run army. The Russian army had a similar make-up, and when competently led, such as in the Brusilov offensive, the man-power and unity of a multi-national fighting force is insane. Unfortunately, the Austrian officers (like Prussia, Austria tended to have the lion's share of command positions in their army, unlike Prussia, however, Austria did not reward free thinkers who ignored pre-planned tactics in favor of winning) thought they were fighting in the same wars that their fathers had fought (Prussia adds: and lost). This meant that there were a lot of charges and battles based on tactics that no longer worked for modern warfare. So, soldiers who were rather tired of either losing, being used as footstools, or cannon fodder depending on the feelings of their officers, had a tendency to kill their commanders and then break down into units on national lines, and retreat before they were either killed by the Russians, or the German army found out. Those Germans weren't so hot on insubordination.

This meant, however, that by the time the Russians reached the Carpathians they were filled with angry Hungarian troops who knew the terrain and made the mountains unassailable. Hungarians on their own ground without stupid officers generally meant a lot of dead Russians at the end of the day. The Offensive by that time was petering out, and the Russian army felt, having made as much ground as they could, that turning their divisions to Serbia was the best move, because Hungary was too tough. It should be noted that Brusilov's tactics were not copied by his Russian contemporaries. But the German observers with the Austro-Hungarian army took notes, and nearly destroyed France with them less than a month later.

**Compiègne** - The first armistice to end WWI was signed in a railway car in Compiègne, at eleven AM November 11th. In other words at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. Someone in Britain was probably hugging themselves for the amount of clever word play they could get out of that one. Anyway, by this point the war was pretty much Germany versus everybody, and the Germans had finally lost. Armistice with Germany had to be prolonged three times before peace was actually ratified. This was not entire Germany's fault. They had agreed to an armistice because the country had gone through a massive revolution (apparently civilians like to eat, and the English had cottoned onto this fact and blockaded German ports), kicked out the Kaiser, and installed a new form of government. The social upheaval from all of these events, plus getting a generation of shell shock soldiers home meant that there were other problems than just ratifying peace.

The fighting continued up to the very minute of eleven, and even beyond that as some soldiers didn't get the note, or hear the peace guns, or just had really bad grudges. But the guns were eventually put down, and peace happened. The terms of the peace held a lot in common with American President Woodrow Wilson's Fourteen Points, which were lovely and optimistic, and filled with light, and for various reasons all brought about the kind of peace in Europe that exploded into the cocktail of fascism a generation later. However, Poland, which had been the battle ground of the Eastern front, and intentionally excluded from the free states of the Russian Empire after the collapse of said Empire by the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk, was recognized as a free and independent nation. It only took over a century after the Partitions for this to happen.

**Paris** - Treaty of Versailles, where everything was officially worked out as far as ending WWI. Germany, as the last hold out and the loser, had to take full responsibility for the war. This included war reparations that totaled about 100,000 tonnes of gold. The sum was worked out in 1921, but the Treaty of Versailles contained the language that made Germany the debtor of the whole amount, and in modern US currency that worked out to 785 billion dollars. Germany was expected to be paying the countries that it had nearly destroyed until 1988. Because part of the treaty of Versailles involved near total dismantlement of German heavy industry, which was the main source of employment and economic boom, Germany really had to scramble to come up with the cash. So they decided to print more money to speed up the process. Since this money was not backed by any gold reserve, the Germany mark was devalued so badly that the paper money became worth more as fuel than as currency. Germany was already in a depression when the world wide great depression hit, and social turmoil is a polite way to describe what was going on. When the Nazi party came to power, their attitude toward the war reparations was: pffft. So Germany stopped paying them, but were forced to continue paying them after WWII. They missed the 1988 deadline, but fascist regimes do that to people. Germany only finished paying off all of the WWI reparations in 2010.

**Tornio** - When the Russian Revolution broke out, Finland took advantage of the chaos to declare independence from Russia, and set themselves up as their own country. Unfortunately, in the shaky aftermath of the Revolution the Finns broke down ideological lines for those who wanted a Communist government, and those who wanted a more traditional form of government. The White Guard were worried that if the country went Communist that would just be asking for the Soviet Union to move back in, after Finland had expended so much energy getting rid of the Russians. The Red Guard was worried that the proto-royalist movement would bring in other foreign oppressors, such as the German Kaiser (hey, Germany was winning the world war at that point, although not for long). So, things broke out into civil war. The White Guard initially was in a poor position, because while geographically it had over 2/3 of Finland under control, that was the northern two thirds, where very few people lived, while the Red Guard controlled the civilian and industrial centers. But the White Guard managed to get both Sweden and Germany on its side. The Swedish saw an opportunity to regain Finland, which would never happen with the Communists in charge. The Germans didn't want Russia to expand its influence back into the Baltic, since Germany had just signed a treaty with Russia to create the Baltic buffer states, and keep the convulsing new union from re-opening the eastern front of the war. With these two supplying weapons and even man power, the White Guard won and the Red Guard lost. Then there was a round of political cleansing where the Communists still living were put into prison camps and sort of left there for a few years.

**Copenhagen** - Resistance to Germany in Denmark was initially very pragmatic. The Danes were coldly civil to the Germans 'helping to maintain their neutrality.' The civilians would pass along things that they happened to hear to people who could use the information, but they weren't actively hostile to the Germans. However, by the end of 1942 Danes started taking more and more action against the Germans. Intitally this was started by the Danish Communists party, who had been banned from Danish politics and members were ordered to be arrested as part of Danish co-operation with the Nazis after Germany invaded the Soviet Union. Once the Communists started, however, former members of the army and danish civilians not even active in political life joined them. Sabotage got to be such a problem that by 1943 the Germans installed a Nazi puppet government, like the kind already experienced in Norway, Belgium, and the Netherlands (Vichy France had sort of rebelled against the Germans at this point).

**Bologna** - After Southern Italy kicked out Mussolini and signed an armistice with the allies in September 1943, the fascists fled to Northern Italy and set up a new Italian state with help from those nice Germans. However, the Royalist Italians out-right joined the allies as co-belligerents, turning the Italian campaign into a minor civil war. Italy was actually very difficult for the Allies to conquer, even with Italians on their side. Italian geography is tough, and the Germans were very well fortified. The Allies managed to push Germany back slowly but surely, until the Germans were trapped against the Alps. At this point, Russia was invading east Germany, the allies were pressing in from the west, and orders from Berlin were for all soldiers to get back to Germany quickly as possible. The retreat was bloody and gruesome. In 1944 Northern Italians had formed a resistance movement against the Germans, which was brutally crushed by April 1944. Massacres of entire villages were not uncommon, as well as other cheery war crimes like rape, mass execution and the like. Anyway, the Germans did not have a good reputation, especially as they were forced slowly to retreat from the South of Italy, heading north. But the Mussolini government stuck by them, until this order to fall back was issued. The Fascist soldiers were terrified that they would be ripped to pieces by their own people, which was what happened. But when they tried to cling to the German troops, the Germans turned on them, and suddenly every town and city with German troops and Italian civilians turned into a lit powder keg.

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**Chapter 6: That Which is Defeated**

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**September 1916 – Carpathians, Austro-Hungarian Empire (Modern day Ukraine)**

Russia's rifle felt good in his hands. The wood was solid. It was there. It made sense. It was a weapon. That was about the only think that was making sense, however. Why was it taking so long for his army to _move_? They had almost won, and then this confusion that had made him walk all the way here from Kowel in disgust and frustration [1].

He had seen men slaughtered. He had watched as railways carried and unloaded Germans, all under the command of that boy he had remembered as a small, adorably naïve blond child, who now wore his nationhood like a serious cloak, a frown etched permanently on his features, and simply exuded power. Prussia had a hand in his molding, which seemed strangest of all, because whatever Germany was, he _felt_ like someone far older, a hint of the distant past clung to him in the same way it clung to Sweden.

He felt Katyusha before he saw her. Dusk was falling, and since it was his rotation as a sentry he was looking away from the camp. The soft crunch of pine needles assailed him, and then a warm weight settled over his shoulders. He turned his head just enough to see brown leather gloves rearranging an extra coat on his shoulders.

"How is your head, Vanya?" she asked quietly, as she made the northwest end of camp the best guarded place in the world.

Having both representatives of the people here was a waste of resources, but Ivan could not bring himself to care in the early mountain evening. He smiled at his older sister, again secretly marveling that she was shorter than he was now. She had been for a long time, but it never failed to amaze him.

"It is better. And you?"

She looked into the dark green gloom. "The closer we get to Austria the more strongly I feel all of my old wounds. He has too many of my people locked up [2]. I did not think that he would be this far South. Not even the Germans have divisions here."

Ivan shrugged. "It is Magyar land. Austria's current wife is of those people."

Katyusha shook her head. "Austria is a heart-hearted man. I am certain of this. Even my people on his side do not like him. He is only with Hungary for the necessity of her power. Vanya? Are you certain that your head isn't hurting in any way?"

Russia caught the shrewd look from his sister, who was not capable of masking her worry, but certainly could tell when he was fibbing. "It was—It gets bad and then gets better. I have been thinking a lot, recently. Going to the speeches in Moscow. I think it is those that cause such storms. But a few migraines are worth it, да? I am so close, I think. These things—have words always been this strong? I see things. A future, great and glorious. Where my people are happy, as we have not been since the days after the Tartars. I am finally seeing things as I should. I think. I hope," the excitement in his voice dwindled. "I don't like some of the ideas. Katyusha, would you be able to live on your own?"

She covered a disbelieving laugh. "Oh Vanya. Oh Vanya. I have been asking to build my own house once again. Of course I would be able to live on my own."

Russia, brooding, did not see the reason for her merriment. "You _needed_ me once. What if your house makes you think that you will never need me again? Or makes you too stubborn to come for aid? I have heard that giving houses can really delude a person. Look at what Tino has done, as I let him live on his own."

Katusha sighed, and Ivan thought he saw wind rippling through long tassels of wheat in the exasperated breath. "Oh, Vanya, we all have done far more to resist you than Finland."

The breath caught in Ivan's throat. _Staring down at his little sister's body, and seeing it for the first time. No. No. He had not—he could have sworn it was Poland. He had thought it was Poland. It had to have been Poland._ "I trusted Tino, and he betrayed that trust. He told me as much. You all have never betrayed me. Other than Poland, but that is what he does. He is out in these mountains, too. He fights us, Katyusha. Can't you feel it? For Austria."

Unable to deny the truth of that statement, Katyusha nodded pensively. "Austria promised him freedom."

"I have, too!" Ivan knew he was being petulant, but he did not like the implications of Katyusha's words.

Shrugging her shoulders within the gray brown of her coat, Katyusha did not deny this. "He and Austria have always had a shared understanding of each other. Also, I heard that Austria convinced Germany _and_ Prussia to agree to Feliks' demands. Even if it is all a lie, for Austria to have managed that is impressive and convincing. You know it is. They certainly have no love for him in their armies."

Russia, who had many Austrian officers in his POW camps, smiled grimly. "I suppose that it is convincing. If only the Magyar disliked him just as much, да? Then we would not have this war here, and would instead be actively helping France [3]."

Katyusha, not as well schooled in warfare, and not knowing the full extent of the lines, glanced at Ivan. "But surely, all we must do is wait for Romania to reinforce our flank, and then—oh, no, isn't Romania coming?"

Ivan glanced about, making certain that the humans were far enough away so that they wouldn't see or hear him. Then he gave a little shake of his head. "There are enough of his people here, we would have felt it. The mountains would no longer stink of Magyar alone. If he is coming, it will be later in the year. I don't understand it. Why is none of this going as expected? We break the Austro-Hungarian line, and then advance, and it is _then_ that the fight becomes difficult. Each way that the army goes is more difficult than the last. I am now with men who must take mountains made only for goats. I feel so much confusion all the time from my humans. The Imperial Army is not confused in battle! It is great! We have not yet met a single objective since Lutsk. In July I saw my army advancing like the great wave of the Red Sea returning after God parted the waters to drown all the Egyptians. Now I'm lost in these mountains. It was supposed to be our moment of glory. The Empire was going to wake, and be a real force, like France had been."

Biting her lip, Katyusha slung her arms around him in a tight hug. "Maybe it's for the best, then. France's empire did terrible things."

Ivan grinned. "He lit Europe ablaze. Life was warm for a few moments."

Katyusha shook her head quietly, stuffing her hands in her pockets to protect against the evening air. "This isn't good for our people. I thought that you were listening to them more."

Russia shrugged. "War may not be good for our people in the immediate, but it will help us expand, and with that we will have more land to grow things on, and then we can feed more people, and have more come into our house—,"

"I thought you were thinking about giving us our own houses," Katyusha could not be sharp, because she was Katyusha. However, she managed something quite painful with her softness.

Ivan tried to think of a way to explain things without making her bring out that knitting needle point. "Ye—I am thinking about it, Katyusha."

Resoluteness gripped her mouth, which lost its easy capacity for smiles. "I do not wish to continue dealing with you as though we are strangers on opposite ends of the field, Vanya. B-but I am ready to do so. You are not the only one who goes to the speeches and demonstrations."

Russia looked away from his older sister, accidentally taking his eyes from his post, and duty. "Why must you leave me? I do not wish to be alone. It is lovely when we are all together."

"We all must grow up sometime," and the gentle softness had returned to her voice, telling Ivan that whatever was troubling Katyusha he was not the one causing it. She still loved him.

Keeping duty at the fore of his mind, Russia turned his eyes to the dimness of the trees once more. "Українська Народня Республіка [4]."

Caught in the act of twisting back to the camp, Katyusha stilled. Ivan smiled out of one side of his mouth at her. Softly, he repeated the name in the language that was not Russian, trying not to stumble over the words. "Українська Народня Республіка, да?"

She blinked, the warm but pale and much reduced orange light of the fire lighting her left side. "Vanya?"

Hoping that this gift was as large to her as it felt to him, Russia repeated the name once more, trying to mimic the tones and accent that he heard among her people. "Українська Народня Республіка. I am practicing saying it. Maybe I will have to say it a lot in times to come."

Unfortunately, Katyusha caught the use of the imperative, and frowned with obviously hurt disapproval. "I hope it will not be _painful_ to you, having to address me as a nation."

"That is why I must practice," Russia replied, with his smile firmly in place like a mask. Suddenly, a surge in the land around them caught his attention, and both soldiers stared into the woodland. "That was Hungary, да? She must be wounded. If we get a troop of soldiers we might be able to—," Russia stopped as Katyusha shook her head.

Holding up a cautionary hand, the gentle representative of a people nodded toward the soldiers. "This has been the first night that we have dared light a fire. Give the men some time to rest, and not carry away the dead [5]. I think that we can always call them up if it appears to be only a small force, or should it just be Hungary, then we should be sufficient."

Ivan grinned, feeling the old liveliness stirring in his veins, chasing away the fogs and confusions that lay in his head. "You think like a warrior, sister."

"I wish it were otherwise," Katyusha's reply was full of Katyusha, calm love and soft wool. He was glad that nothing could really ever change her. "However, we must do the job before us."

Together, they set off through the trees and the gloom. The September air was chill, and the mountains hostile, although not actively so. Russia occasionally spared glances backward for his post. He was abandoning it, but a human would soon replace him.

An hour's worth of stalking brought them up a field filled with flowers that were dying as their season passed, through more trees, and into a beautiful valley still in the night, except for the water reflecting the light of the stars, the lake trembling in the lightest breeze. The brother and sister stuck silently to the rim of this valley, climbing over rocks and trying not to crush any vegetation under foot, just in case Hungary's energies were being used on her own land, and the broken stems would cry out a warning.

For a minute, as they began to ascend again, Katyusha paused her gloved hand brushing the rock sadly. Ivan thought of how the peaceful valley would look once they got the artillery up here. Just another blasted land filled with dead bodies. Like him. Just like him. This would become part of him, and he could not wait, even if it hurt Katyusha to think of things this way. She would learn. Oh yes. Everything was to be part of Russia. Oh yes.

Their breathing became shorter as they climbed. Then, suddenly, humans just appeared. Stepping from one slab of stone to the next, it was as though the siblings had passed some barrier, and a camp of men had suddenly appeared just ahead of them. Both lands shrunk into the shadows, astounded. Russia cautiously peered around his chosen tree, an ancient thing, barely hanging onto a near-vertical cliff face.

Magyar, almost exclusively, from the uniforms, and the languages being passed back and forth. Occasional spurts of awkward German spoke of other nationalities, but not many, and probably not Germans in of themselves. Poles, if Ivan was to take a guess [6]. Bulgaria's people, maybe? The humans were active, moving things in mysterious ways. The lack of warning as to their appearance, and the feeling of the land around them made Russia suspect that this group was being used as some sort of guard for Hungary.

He wished for a machine gun. However, he had his rifle, and ammunition. With a delighted grin, he unslung the gun, only to be stopped by Katyusha's hand on his arm. She shook her head silently, motioning that they needed to walk around these humans.

She was right, as usual. While he could kill many of the humans, there would always be more. There were always more humans. They were not as precious as nations. If he or his sister was discovered, and then killed, what would that mean for the troops? What would that mean for the campaign?

Returning his rifle to its shoulder strap with a saddened sigh, he nodded, and they began to circle around, knowing that the men would have very little idea of the lands the Easterners represented. Katyusha was probably in more danger of being spotted than he was, oddly enough. Many people in this part of the world knew her open love and delight in grain fields swaying in the summer wind. Soon they would know России [7]. Everyone knew him sooner or later. The Empire was going to be reborn and burn like a bright flame. Soon. Soon enough.

Leaving the yellow warmth of the human fires behind them, the siblings found themselves heading west, the incline now almost too steep for anything, even a mountain goat. Ivan found himself wanting to mention this to Katyusha, get her to laugh and tell him a tale of ibexes on distant peaks, the way she had once done when they were younger. So much younger.

Suddenly, yellow peeked around a rock face of thick green and purple shadows. The two lands stopped simultaneously, dropping to bellies, before crawling forward. Yes. Here she was. Here they were, Russia should say, vaguely surprised. From a small tent of slanted rocks, he could hear a soft murmur of voices. Soon, they were close enough to see two figures by the fire, one already bandaged so that a slash of white bisected what appeared to be black hair in this light, and the other, with her military shirt lifted to reveal a bloody mess of holes and raised flesh slowly knitting next to her spine. Her partner was peering intently at the hole, long tweezers flashing in the changing light as they dived in and out of wounded flesh, bringing out bloody slugs of metal, and dropping them in something that rang like a bell with each added piece of shot.

"You, ah! Ow—Really, you don't have to do this, Roderich. I'll heal on my own."

Her voice was strained, tired. Good. Венгрия [8] would fall. Must fall. They would conquer the west. Without warning his head began to hurt. Late night back in Moscow, and there was a protest in progress. A stirring speech, complaining of casualties. Ivan tried to concentrate on the enemy, ruthlessly blocking the voices of his people from his thoughts.

Austria brought forward a damp cloth. The puffy dusty rosy skin was scrubbed at, causing the wounded woman to grunt for a second, and then bite down on her lip.

The other half of the dual monarchy's voice floated on the cool air, weary and quiet. "I wouldn't be useful for much if I couldn't at least take care of this. You shouldn't have worn yourself out earlier."

"We're not going to lose to some scarf-wearing maniac," Hungary chuckled gamely. "You have to prepare if you want to win. You should be with your troops. I'll do fine on my own, I promise."

Her current doctor picked up a roll of bandage. He hesitated for a moment, and then began to wrap her back. The flickering light colored his cheeks warmly, but his rejoinder was cool and calculated. "You didn't abandon me when Lusk fell. If I did not repay you for that I would not be a good husband, now would I?"

A light chuckle. Sometimes all that could be done was laugh at the dark. "You're needed with your troops. You know you are."

"Why? So that they can shoot me again? Or I could just wait for _Prussia_ to show up and do it for them [9]. You know I heard him asking Germany if they could switch sides and fight with the English?"

A small gasp as a bandage was tugged too tightly, and then the wry observation: "You _were_ trying to desert the army, Austria. That sort of thing is bad for discipline."

"The time with Prussia, I was getting coffee for him because he asked me to," Austria was clearly mortified by the apparent insubordination of his allies. Russia would never let any of his children do something like that. The voices in his head rose shrilly. There was a riot over the price of bread in some small city. A woman was crying for the death of her son. A man drank away the loss of his farm.

_The Empire was losing_.

Ivan rose to his feet, his head cool, despite the raging headache.

"Trust him to take advantage of his standing orders. I'll have to have a little talk to Prussia about that."

He brought his rifle to his shoulder, sighting on Hungary's heart.

"There, now just let me fix this—,"

The rifle fired with a roar. CLANG! Hungary whipped the frying pan around almost as quickly as the ricocheting bullet. Without a word she rolled away from the ring of firelight, trailing her white bandage, just as Austria overturned a kettle of water on the fire, extinguishing the light. Green and purple bubbles bounced across Russia's vision, as he counted. Four. A shot to where he had last seen Austria's head. Three.

Out of the darkness, Hungary was suddenly visible, a terrible demon made of floating hair and translucent skin. She brought her cast iron weapon down on Katyusha, who fumbled for her shashka, blocking the blunt instrument with a frightened gasp. Taking the opportunity presented, Ivan roared angrily, and dashed forward, slamming his bayonet into the injured side of the woman who fought like a man with no heart.

"My sister, Австро-Венгрия [10], is sacrosanct!"

The pan slammed into the side of Ivan's head. Suddenly his green and purple vision was flashing on and off, as his mind jumped back to Moscow, and a boy sleeping tired and exposed in a door way; among the men of a camp, tiredly playing cards far from home, ready to die for his glory; with a column of Cossack cavalry marching north in the dark. He should be there. He needed to be there.

Another slam! Wham! Bonk! Hungary growled furiously, coming in close: "Saját hegyek, Orosz Birodalom [11]!"

She whirled, just as Russia discovered, bemusedly, that his body had turned to water, muscles tumbling and pooling, spreading out all over the ground, which he sunk to, amazed, and lost. He barely had the presence of mind to pull the trigger as he slumped, and Hungary struck Katyusha with the crack of breaking fingers.

Blood splashed all over his fixed smile.

* * *

**November 1918 – Compiègne, France**

Like, Poland was not one for idealism, he told himself, sitting on the drab concrete of a train station. The milling nations all around had turned the world into a mad house. Not that the world in his corner has not been mad already, but of course they had spread the madness and the horror, and the death, and somehow, somehow, it was all going to work out like this. They were sane. They were repaired, and they were fucking done. And he, glorious, was done, too.

Prussia, kicking his heels against the side of a platform was staring at the blue, blue sky, possibly imagining the eagles a-soaring in multicolored gems. Ash burned from the end of a cigarette, smoke untasted, as it dangled at the corner of his mouth. That was his fourth in the past hour, and Poland could not imagine how many crumpled little cardboard containers must have been littering wherever he had bunked. Strange to think of Prusy relying on shredded blood brown leaves to keep the pain of defeat at bay [12].

All around, nations crowded and jostled. Not everyone was there. Sadiq had been trying to slip away, muttering that all of his treaties had been signed already. However, Greece, with a proud smirk on his sleeping face, was spread over the dirty tiles under the high arch signaling the entrance to the ticket sellers', and Romania, eyes lit by a hungry fire, several maps, and a red ink pen had stationed himself above the stairs leading to the the other platforms where humans buzzed and flitted. The broken empire finally sat down at the edge of the platform, brown head bare for once, although the mask was firmly in place with no intention of leaving. He stared at his hands, shoulders hunched in a pose that Feliks would have considered more Prussia's style. Instead, here Prusy was staring blankly at the sky, leaning back on his hands in an attitude that was just waiting for a sword to jam into his breastbone, and the Ottoman Empire huddled defensively in around himself. What a world. Totes wonderful.

Finally, Sadiq looked up, his smile wry. "Shouldn't ya be celebrating, Poland? You're going to be independent and free."

A snort from Prussia, totally expected, and the crawling German name [13] was muttered into the smoke cloud. The white haired, black hearted bitch was lucky that Feliks was feeling too empty today to punch him.

"Not until after the armistice is signed, Otto—,"

Sadiq held up a hand, world weary. "It's Turkey now. Or it will be. What will be, will be, I a'ppose. C'mon, cheer up. Russia's down," the dark man savored this statement, grinning, "you're free. The world is—,"

"One Bloody Mary away from t_o_tal chaos," Poland opined. "Eh, I had a bad run of the war [14]."

Sadiq nodded. "I get that. Still, your founders' fault for sayin' 'hey, look at this wide flat plain great fer marching armies across. Let's settle down and live here.'"

Poland jokingly looked away, flipping his hand for Sadiq to address. "It was a glooooorious flat plain, and you know it."

Prussia, now pulled completely from whatever interior world he was contemplating, snorted. "I think it makes a pretty damn glorious bloody hole in the ground, even so," he chuckled darkly. "Let the freaking poppies bloom there, eh?"

Turkey put a hand on Poland's arm. Just as well, because the reborn country was considering grabbing Prussia's pistol and shooting him with it. "Let him. It's the price you pay for winning."

Not much of a freaking victory, getting back a portion of the land that should have been his all along, and Liet not speaking to him. Totes uncool. The thought of Lithuania made Poland scowl, even if it wasn't Liet's fault. He could see why anyone would take their only opportunity to escape Russia, but why wasn't Liet even letting him visit [15]? It hurt. Maybe not as much as barbed wire, and mine fields, and dead men, and rotting corpses and blasted land, and unexploded artillery shells all over his body, but it still hurt.

Around them, nations whooped. He listened with half an ear. Nations that had not interacted or seen each other for centuries suddenly had an excuse to be in one another's presence on official business. It was a paid holiday, and they were taking it, as though madness confined to one French train station could make up for the years and years of utter horror that had deluged them.

Wine from France, still wearing his scars—gross, poor man, most were still open or scabby—slopped near Poland's hand. "Mon cher," an arm had already slung itself around Poland's neck and chest, "slip into something more your style, and join us. We are celebrating. One must not be down," dry lips nibbled at the back of Poland's neck, and quickly Feliks jammed his elbow into a wounded shoulder.

"Like, no! I'll take my curtain call at eleven," he did not want to be ungrateful. France, the Ottom—Turkey, and stupid Sweden had done more for him over this full century and then some, but it was not Poland's way to let France grope him.

The man, clearly pouting, withdrew his hand with only a minor squeeze to Poland's trench coated side. "Oh, but it's not fun when you do it like that. Why not celebrate? Or, at the very least, come and drink with the rest of us. You don't belong here. With them."

Prussia, rolled eyes that sloshed with the life's fluid of his people lost in the Somme. "Everyone belongs here, Francis."

Still curled around Poland, France used the other's shoulder as a perch from which to gaze questioningly at Prussia. "Oh-ho! Has something gotten to you, diabolique Prusse [16]? Here you have destroyed all of Europe as we have not seen since the Reformation and you're not celebrating for the sheer joy of having been the agent of it all. Still got a bit of your poison in your system, Gilbert?"

Poland snorted. "Are you, like, implying that it's an outside force?"

Shooting both dark expressions of useless irritation, Prussia tried to take a drag on his cigarette, only to realize that it was burned to the quick. Stubbing it out with a vengeance, he focused on the broken stub. "You started it, fuckface [17]."

"Now, now, don't sound like the little Italian. It doesn't suit you," France replied reprovingly. "And the gas was your precious Ludwig's weapon. Do not deny it. Now, Prusse, if you are very good, I will give you some very fine wine, and perhaps forget the mud and the artillery shells for just a moment. Come, Pologne, you are to be independent and strong. I even stayed out of the hospital and the attention of some very lovely ladies of the medical profession for this moment. _You_ cannot do less."

Prussia sneered. "Of course he can. He's Mitteleuropa for another half hour."

"WRONG!" bouncing through the crowd, a young nation skidded to a halt near the little cadre of the losers. He had not, like most, changed out of his uniform, and still smelled disgustingly of mud and guts, but Poland could get used to the optimism that radiated from the boy's countenance. "I refuse to allow it, kraut-eating scum! Today is a wonderful day, and Poland will be free!"

Feliks chuckled, while Francis all out laughed. Why weren't they like that any more? It reminded Poland of himself when telling Liet to cheer up, and get back to the harvest. "You should, like, take him to celebrate as my place holder," Poland addressed himself to France.

The old nation grinned, a ragged line of raised flesh on his cheek beginning to smooth out. "He certainly might be kinder on my advances."

The bright blue eyes bugged out behind America's glasses. "Wait, what? F-France, you're practically my father!"

All four nations at the concrete edge shared a knowing grin. They were the old men of Europe. Even knowing what they did about one another, and having this vast gulf of a war around them, and between them, France would always be France, and this was something to be grateful for.

"I'll stop being a father, then," France purred, flowing up, and pressing close to the young blonde.

America shoved him away, a move that would have sent the wounded nation onto the rail ties if Poland hadn't grabbed the stumbling man by the hem of his uniform tunic. "Like, you gotta be careful with this one, America. He's not completely out of the woods yet. 'Kay?"

Prussia, bitter, just shook his head. He murmured: "Who is?"

Poland would totally never agree with anything that the stinking German ever did or said, but in a way, none of them really were out of the woods, from the jostling crowd to the morose.

France merely grinned. "Trust you to save me," the flirtation was rusty, but it would do, Poland thought, as he saw the rose conjured from the air.

"Oh, but you'll always be totally my hero," Poland dragged France down to become a barrier between himself and Prussia. "Well, you and little America, of course. Give the speech again, will you, Mr. Stars and Stripes?"

That made Prussia jump to his feet. "Stop rubbing it in, you smarmy little son of a bitch! America, you begin on your fourteen points and I will start this _whole_ war all over again!"

The young man crossed his arms defiantly. "Oh yeah? Well, you—well, you need to calm down! Because you're wrong and you lost!"

Pale lips pulled back in a sneer. "Wrong? Deustchland hatte keinen Fehler gemacht [18]!" and here Poland would have snorted and interjected, but interrupting Prussia when he was on a roll should only be attempted by people with specialized equipment. "Here you stand and tell me that I'm wrong? I stood by my men, I stood by my allies, I did everything that might be done to win, and yes, sometimes we lose. That happens, too. But losing does not make us wrong, any more than winning makes you right," he was leaning in, thin and terrible, bringing his appalling eyes right into America's face. "Where were you when they first cried out that they needed you?" a claw-like hand waved, taking in England and a dull eyed tall blond Poland had not seen since the Great Northern War, and did not really remember.

All over the platform, the winners, some who probably should not even be there, because divisions were still fighting in the trenches of the West, lounged in celebration. Several of England's colonies—Dominions, he called them, now—were singing together, some sad low song, over glasses sloshing with wine. Belgium was arguing with the pipe smoking bastard of her brother. Poland's favorite enemy of Russia that he had never spoken to, was in a serious discussion with the animated Northern Italy, while his older brother leaned against a bench and glared about. Serbia and Montenegro were now blocking exit to other platforms with Romania eagerly giggling about 'wanting part of that _bitch_'s assets' which made Poland frown in pain for Hungary, too badly damaged to attend this momentous occasion. Brazil and Portugal draped themselves over the bench near the Dominions, carefully not speaking to one another, and drinking heavily.

America, screwing up his courage under the accusation, scowled right back. "I came when I was needed, and that's the point!"

"Pft," Prussia sneezed dismissively, turning away from the younger, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "twerp."

Impressively, and totally beyond what Poland would have done in the boy's place, the kid ignored it, and scanned the group in the losers' corner, before frowning. "Has _anyone_ seen Canada?"

The sitting nations looked at one another, confused. Poland volunteered for all of them: "Like, who?"

America chuckled, "Oh, come on, surely France has seen him at least. My little brother? Long hair. Wild curl. Glasses? Habit of stuttering and speaking in broken French?"

France appeared vaguely guilty, which Poland did not understand. But, oh well. "Ah, you said _Canada_, I thought you were talking about one of the African nations [19]. Non. I haven't seen him. I thought he was with that Australia boy with that glaring gray thing."

Rising and falling on the cool air, Gilbert's cackle cut through whatever America had been about to say. Bright red, like his Baron's plane [20], his eyes swiveled to the side, trying to gauge America without actually turning to look at him. Then they squinted shut in laughter once more. France, sharp boned from hunger and famine, dug his fingers sharply into Poland's side, as the mad sound danced around them. This was a noise that had echoes over the cries of the wounded, and the explosions of shells.

Raising one finger to his eyes to wipe away the moisture that had collected there, Gilbert collected himself, in a way that was too still. "_You_, of all people, you want to know where Kanada is? If he's lucky, he's in a hospital. I sniped the boy in Belgium before waltzing down here [21]. Waited. Killed. Left."

In a rush, the gray white mess of Prussia's head crashed against the ground, smashing against dirty concrete. Poland grinned, feeling the justice of America rising strong and punching between screams: "Why? We're about to have an armistice! Canada is just one of England's Dominions! You don't—you never should—he never did anything to you! What about peace?"

Prussia was smiling, like the absolute lunatic he was. Smiling though a bleeding face, and Poland was torn between his duty to pull the kid off before he witnessed murder, and letting Prusy take _everything_ that was coming to him for the pain and partitions, and puppetry, and games and for freaking Brest-Litovsk.

Of course, Prusy would never do anything as graceful as just taking his beating. An uppercut caught the strong young nation a surprise on the chin. As the rest of the platform realized that two nations were fighting, and probably about to make the entire war explode again as their hate and adrenaline streamed into millions of human hearts, Prussia rolled with America, trying to dislodge the ball of fury as fractures to the frame of his face knit and healed themselves.

"He didn't have to do anything, _Amerika_. This is the _cost_ of war! He was the enemy, and I had my shot. Kanada lost. Can you understand that, Feigling [22]? No. You're weak. I thought I taught you better than that, but it seems some people still need to learn!"

Like slow syrup, nations moved, running against tides of history and humanity tangling around the two kicking, pummeling, _fighting_ men. Prussia's hands grabbed America by the hair and forcefully turned his head to give him a view of the dark India, the bright surprise of Australia, a staring New Zealand, bloody little Newfoundland, and sour-looking South Africa. "See them," Prussia hissed, taking advantage of the ear right by his teeth. "See them, do you, little _boy_? Do you want to know where they are, too? Or do you want to know where they were? _I _knew where Kanada was at the Somme. The kid with sideburns stopped me all on his own in July, and maybe saved the entire war for you silly little _Allies_. At Bazentin Ridge the old man from a different freaking continent machine gunned my men without a single shred of remorse! Arthur's sent that blond sheep head to help take Messines from me! That fine lady had her troops rebel on her and refuse to fight Lutz because, I don't know, they were sissies or something. But she still stood strong and fought as a nation on fields you can't even imagine. The little kid there didn't hide in Arthur's shadow or Kanada's protection. He came and _fought_. They were my opponents, my enemies, and frankly that's a fucking compliment to me. I met them on this front. I sometimes even met them on their fronts. I knew where they were. Where were you? I don't fucking care, because you weren't there, and you don't know jack shit about how war works [23]!"

England tore the ranting German from America just as Poland had decided that he could happily deliver a response, if it was beyond the young man. Jumping to his feet, the slight nation realized an old strength was flowing through his veins. Greece, awake, alive and huge, had the struggling Alfred in his arms, but the boy really was built like an ox on some levels, and both keepers of order were slowly being dragged back towards each other, as their burdens struggled to get at each other.

Poland stepped between them, and shoved with both hands, pushing against uniform clad chests. There was a gasp. An oath. Someone toasted the affair with a clink of glass.

Someone else was shouldering through the assembly. Tall and blond, Germany burst into the cleared ring, only to stop, and glare at Poland, before saluting awkwardly. "The armistice has been put into effect."

Oh _really_? Ink was running all over Poland's skin for the first time in 123 years, forming the elegant curves of letters in an alphabet that was his very own. It was faint, the ghostly images of land, contact from the former possessor of the land would be needed to gain full power, but at last he was anchored. Solid. Whole.

"Polska odradza [24]!" Feliks exclaimed, grinning furiously up at Prussia. "As for you: bully the best thing in the West once more, and I'll partition you and move you back to Warsawa. Get. It?"

Prussia growled, his voice rumbling through pass, and then climbing into a swift and surprising shriek of frustration. "You have no fucking right! No _child_ from across an ocean will dictate terms to—"

"Oh, I think they will, Prusy. In fact, of course he will. Let's start with no more secret treaties, huh? This, right here, where all of us can totally see what we're up to, is where it's going to begin. No more meetings with Russia in back rooms, locking me under your care!"

From the audience that had formed around them, Belgium's grim laugh, no longer bright and warm with promise, echoed. "And, when diplomacy is conducted in public, maybe the results will be honored, hmm?"

Poland shot a grin at the very uncomfortable Germany. He was getting into this. "And I think there was some stuff about free and unhindered travel on the oceans."

The blond man who had been speaking with England before cleared his throat meaningfully [25]. "I think some of the men you've killed in the sea, Tyskland [26], might appreciate it if you had fewer of your sneak-attack ships."

The blond Empire-no-longer looked away in embarrassment. But there was more. Feliks noticed how a few countries, Netherlands and England included, looked a little uncomfortable, as the Dominions appeared as eager as he felt. "And, um, wasn't there something about equal trade, somewhere in there, Ameryca?"

"Right before the bit about disarming," if smiles could be dazzling, America's was so bright that it caused the air around him to sparkle.

Prussia, in England's grip, whimpered almost inaudibly [27]. Feliks grinned. So much for the pride and joy of the Teutonic Knights. Not that he gloated about it out loud, because that would not be fabulous. Silence ground into the wound much better.

Poland was not entirely certain how America was going to get the next pieces past the waiting audience. Oh, they had been proposed countless times, but something felt different here. Saying them out loud. Taunting Prusy and his brute of a brother. The plans for peace were more real. The United Kingdom of Britain let go his grip on Prussia's waist, although he still held the shoulder meaningfully, to put one hand over his eyes, as though he knew what Poland was going to say, and couldn't believe that it was so stupid. Stupid only to a colonial power.

Feliks took a breath. "And we've got an agreement in there to, like, re-evaluate the position of colonies seeking independence."

"You bloody would," Arthur glared right at his former colony through his blunt fingers, ignoring the fact that Poland had brought it up.

Ludwig, who had been trying to politely and subtly extract his brother from Great Britain's grasp, was forced to stop for a moment so that his expression did not completely betray his glee at the discomfort that his enemies were receiving.

America, however, had to raise the point that Poland liked least. "Of course, speaking of Empires, and such, Iggy, we're going to have to be nice to Russia, once it wants to rejoin the world. I know things are tough, but it sounds as though—,"

The rest of his words Poland tuned out because he did not have a high tolerance for idiocy even on, like, the most spectacular day of the year. He was still missing a ton of major chunks of his land, but he could get those back. He was Polska. Glorious.

"Speaking of land that needs to be evacuated of German troops, Ludwig, Gilbert," Belgium interrupted, "I want point seven of the American's ideas honored. Starting now, if we may. Get your people out of my land. Netherlands doesn't seem to _mind_ quartering them [28]. Funny how that kind of thing works out, hmm?"

Germany cast her a baleful glare. "Some things take time, Königreich Belgien."

France's voice rang out. "Not, I hope, returning to me the land that Prussia snuck off with—,"

This made Prussia wrench himself from England's loose grasp. "You lost that damn war fifty years ago! Alsace-Lorraine are mine! Mine! Mine! Mine! Next you'll be taking Holstein and Schleswig from me!"

"Like, Prusy?" Poland purred with the sweetness of honey. "Losers aren't choosers."

A small commotion in the crowd centered around a bench, as one short nation was clearly trying to climb for a better height. Germany, one of the tallest there, looked over, and just winced. "Yes, Italy?"

The auburn curl bobbed enough for Poland to see it and grin. "Um, ve, but, um, can we not forget Austria and Hungary? Not that I want to hurt them any more than we already have—,"

"I fucking do!" someone yelled, below the level of the crowd.

"—but um, I'd like my land back. Please? Since we did win!" Feliciano promptly sat again.

From below the same someone hissed angrily that it was the potato bastards' job to give everything back, and then possibly pay a bit of money to the treasury, too. Half their income. At fucking least.

America, grinning as though the sun was shining just for him, replied: "Sure, sure. But just remember, Austria and Hungary need some land, too."

"Damn well, _no_, they don't!"

"Not much, we hope!" Romania grinned evilly, waving the map that was in the midst of being redrawn. "We want the Magyar bitch and her smelly people gone before sunset!"

The entire Balkan contingent shared expressions that seemed unnaturally cheerful for some people who had just had their lands brutally savaged. On the other hand, they were probably going to get a lot more land, and revenge of sorts on the foul enemies. Poland wouldn't be surprised if Bulgaria wasn't half way to Berundi, in search of a place to hide. Hungary and Austria were lucky that they were safe in a hospital.

Sadiq rose, finally, and began to make his way through the crowd. Heracles' huge hand shot out, and tried to grab him. "Where, exactly, do you think you're going," the large man growled, friendly eyes suddenly eager, and angry.

"Home," Turkey told him, shaking off the hand. "What's left for me, here, anyway? Ya telling me that my lands are going to come apart according to popular vote, or whatever? Democracy. Hah! It'll never work out. See ya when you're ready for a real treaty [29]."

He started around at the assembled nations surrounding the two Germans. A slow smile spread on his face. Poland knew that look. The Empire had often worn it just before offering more coffee and chuckled about boundless optimism. The man was nothing but pragmatic, in the end.

Well Poland was always a flaming optimist. "You guys _will_ be giving me back my land. Forever mine. Free."

Sadiq's chuckle hung in the air. Lazily it twisted like smoke, the congratulations of a gentleman. They understood one another.

Prussia spit on the ground, fuming. His little brother and overlord, made a noise in the back of his throat. Prussia mantled. "Why don't we just convene a damn meeting every year designed to make fun of the Germans for the next century [30]?"

"Oh so you've read all fourteen points after all!" America caused Poland to burst out laughing, and raise his fingers. "A drink for Mister Fabulous, here. And I'll take a double. Something totally frilly with an umbrella fit for a hero, yeah?"

He had his land again. Bloody, rotten, half sunk in the quagmire of Central Europe, and with the eternal Russian presence looming over him, but Poland was Polska once more, and he owed the mother of God a bit of a thanks and a long, stiff drink in her honor.

* * *

**June, 1919 – Paris, France**

Surprise was not an awesome feeling, and definitely did not become Prussia, but everything still floored him. "How much? There's no way we can pay all that! That's more than Denmark wrung from Sweden in 1620!"

Ludwig, done telling the damage of the peace, appeared thunder struck. "Osten, there are bigger problems—,"

"Bigger problems? They're trying to give us a debt burden that makes clean up from the damn Thirty Years' War look like a walk in the park. Why not just unleash the Black Death on everyone? It'd be quicker!" Prussia almost put his hands into the pockets of his dress uniform, before realizing that was ill advised. He wouldn't want to rumple his clothes. No. Not today.

This seemed just to exasperate Ludwig. "Preußen! Hör auf [31]! I can shoulder the debt! That is not—,"

Proud of the young man, Prussia smiled. He slapped Ludwig good-naturedly on the back. "You're a good kid, Lutz, but we've got to fight this one. Er, not literally, but we can't just let them pick our pockets like this. That's my job, right?"

Ice blue eyes tried to drill into Prussia. "Bruder, bitte— [32],"

Taking an energetic circuit of the rich blue and red carpet, Prussia wished that there was a window to this antechamber. "Nicht geil, aber, na ja, wir können— [33],"

"Prussia!"

Gilbert stopped mid-prowl. Germany loomed above him, filled with a sad, defeated anger that shook the walls. "There is no 'we.' Haven't you been listening? They want to be rid of you, Königreich Preußen. Parcel you into pieces. Divide you. A little debt is what has you worried?"

Prussia brought his hands in front of him. He was wearing gloves, silly in June, but the less he saw his own skin right then, the better. Slowly, he removed each black leather gauntlet. "Ich weiß, Lutz," letters swirled and bubbled on the back of his hands. He looked up at Ludwig, a mad smile twitching his lips. "But I'm the Free State now, and I have been since we tossed out my scheiße Kaiser [34]," it had not been them together, he knew. Prussia did not possess the moral fiber to question the chain of command that closely, and thank God and the earth that Ludwig did. But right now Germany was hurting, and any guilt halved was for the better of them both. "I'll survive. These war reparations, though, fuck them."

"Poland. Lithuania. Denmark. Belgium. Czechoslovakia. You're telling me that I have to walk to the table, and sign _bits_ of you over to them [35]?" Ludwig asked, cold and furious.

Having no bird to comfort was a bit of a blow, but Ludwig did make a decent substitute. "Nah. _We're_ going to go in there, and sign bits of me over to them. And it will be gentleman-like, because America, the golden boy of the hour is there, and all of Arthur's little Dominions, and England may be a crappy guardian, but he's not _that_ bad of one."

Lutz did not ask for an explanation, and Gilbert was grateful not to have to give it. The gloves were a pointless vanity. With a frustrated snarl, he tossed them in the corner. "Well, it's been an awesome run, right?"

"It's not over yet," Germany replied, staring straight ahead, furious.

Prussia shrugged. "Hey, I'm not dead, and going to be around for a long time to come! Awww, are you angry for the sake of your big brother? Big strong Lutzchen brought low by a small free state in his borders. Who would have thought that he'd allow himself to be so _weak_?"

The pain that Prussia's sweetly mocking voice forced across Ludwig's face was so apparent that had the Freistaad been a sissy he would have regretted it. "It's not a weakness to care, Gilbert."

"In this case?" Prussia sneered, taking a step back. "It's a liability. So we lost this one. What did you learn at your first Treaty? There will always be others. Europe's too small for all the fantastic lands she produced. I'm a little proud of that fact, you know."

The German Realm stared at him, measuring Prussia, very possibly for a straight jacket. Gilbert was used to that kind of expression, especially from Lutz. "The first treaty I was at was Nystad, and I don't remember Sweden successfully entering anything since; correct me if I'm wrong [36]. They're dismantling the _military_, Prussia."

"Na und? I'll get a new hobby. You've already got philosophy, so, eh, I'll become known the world over for sculpture, or some such shit [37]," Prussia patted his brother on the shoulder awkwardly.

This statement was silly enough for Ludwig to go slightly pink in embarrassment for being such a wuss. "I think that's North Italy's realm of expertise, Brother, and I don't want to have any more reasons for him to come over to our house. He keeps treating my kitchen as his own. It's violating."

An evil smirk melted into a laugh that forced Prussia to hold his sides. Trust today of all days to be the single one where he could not keep a uniform from getting rumpled. "Oh, Lutz, Lutz, Lutz. Only you would see having your kitchen used by a kid who makes the Vögelchen look scruffy and unlovable as an invasion. C'mon, the guy makes you food. _And_ it's good. What's there to complain about? In fact, I think turning down food is something I brought you up not to do."

The pink lasted on Germany's face, as he shook his head. "He used up all the food before he was finally rescued, and left the kitchen a mess. You remember how much trouble we had getting that cleaned up."

Prussia grinned. "I'm still too gleeful about the little guy and his brother smashing Specs to be all that unhappy. Besides, having something that could be put right with the application of hard work was a welcome break," he looked at the ceiling, hoping Ludwig would be too mad at him for talking that way about Austria to notice the wussiness creeping around the corners of his face. "Well, nothing for it. Let's end this war for good and all."

He tried to walk past Deutsches Reich, and open the door. Ludwig grabbed his arm. "Give the territories to me. I'll hand them over. Maybe it'll hurt less that way."

Twisting out of the grip, Prussia cackled, and opened the door. "Little brothers are to be protected by the elder, not the other way around, Lutz. Just be glad I'm not demanding all the other parts of the Empire that are to come undone. Besides, this is the cost of war."

Germany did not seem to be precisely comforted by any of this. "It never has been this way before," he objected, preceding Prussia from the room. "We have never been _guilty_ for a war. The other side has never been in the right."

"Blame fucking Austria," Prussia advised. "If he hadn't been such a dead weight we might have won."

Might. Geeze, he was down today. There had been a time when he was just so confident in his brilliance that the question was how they were going to win, not 'if.' It had been their might that had kept the war going for as long as it had. On the other hand, it had not been luck that turned against them. They had kept on fighting even when France was nothing more than a ruin, and stormed the Baltic, and destroyed the Urals. There was no question that they had caused damage that put them at least on par with Napoleon's Army, if not the Swedish Empire.

Infamy was a fine thing when you won. The losing side though, not so much, in Gilbert's humble opinion.

Along the carpeted hallway, Arthur was negotiating with his dominions, looking harassed. Prussia smirked knowingly at the Empire as they passed, running red eyes along the clustered dominions. Both Australia and Canada were fully grown men now, and New Zealand which had entered the war as young as Newfoundland looked as though it was going to join them in the next few crises. Arthur was dwarfed now by lands that had entered the war as boys. Prussia wanted to snicker. Soon England's time would come, too.

Germany turned his head, as the biggest of the six shoved Arthur. Prussia grabbed his brother's head. "Don't look. That evil pouch bear of his might take that as a sign to attack. Again."

Unnerved blue eyes snapped straight forward with military rigor. Yeah, they were being pussies, but sensible ones, as far as Prussia could figure. Just as they were responsible, or whatever bullshit for the losing end of the war, the Brits probably should be credited for the winning side. Not that they would be, with America bouncing around like a juggernaut.

Words that warmed Prussia's heart for the clear defiance of the foul little eyebrow-covered island wavered in the draft of the Hall. "W-we deserve our place, England. We fought, we're ready to accept the responsibility of carrying this through to the end."

To the very end, Prussia agreed silently. He stopped, just outside the door, and fished around for a cigarette.

Ludwig gave him a look. "Really, brother? This doesn't become us, being late so you can sneak a cigarette."

Sparks jumped from the match book that Gilbert drew from his pocket. "Eh," he inhaled, sucking the taste of dry tobacco in with the flame. "The signatories haven't even gotten their agreements figured out, yet," he nodded down the hall. "Gimme a last moment, will you? The world isn't going to be the way I remember it."

"The way we remember it," Ludwig nodded, staring at the carpet, as Gilbert looked over his shoulder.

Noises came from from beyond the wood, mostly American shouts, and the occasional 'totally.' Yeah, Prussia had earned this. Probably. Nicht geil, but he had been a total bastard. Time to pay the reaper.

"It won't be that bad," he tried to comfort Ludwig, one more time. "We'll be back on our feet before you know it."

The German Realm stepped closer to the wall, seeing the arguing dominions frog march England towards the door. They had won. That much was clear. Germany waited until they were past, and the door had shut, before admitting very quietly: "I _hate_ them."

Prussia shrugged. He'd run the gamut on hate, and yeah, if he thought about what was going to happen because of France's reparations, he was probably going to start frothing at the mouth, break a bottle, and then jam it down the nearest bastard's throat (but preferably France's. Alsace-Lorraine had been the crowning moment of glory after the epic fight with Austria, and the land _belonged_ in Ludwig's possession). "It gets better."

"We lost and now they get to tear you apart. Half of these nations have never even known the lands they want to carve up!" Ludwig was building himself into a shaking, towering rage. Prussia almost wanted to shove him into the small room, lock the door, and let him go off on the nations assembled there. Almost.

Instead he shrugged again. "It's amazing who you can meet on the battle field, Lutz. Can't fault them for wanting to support their newly-made friends. Hell, if we'd won—," he trailed off, before deciding to knock some ash from his cigarette. "Tsch. Well, guess we can't really think about that, now, can we?"

Ludwig sighed as he knocked his head back against the ugly flowery wall paper. "I still _hate_ them. It isn't fair."

Poisonous vapors warmed Prussia's lungs, and greased his laugh. "Since when has anything ever been fair?"

To his credit, Ludwig did not try to answer. His answering smile was both tired, and it looked as though it hurt. "You don't have to do this, Gilbert. There is no reason why they should get everything twice over. If you relinquish your sense of the land right now—,"

"Can't do that, Westen. You know _I_ can't do that," another breath. There might not be any more honor. Piety might have been wiped away over long years. Sincerity had never been one of his strong points, but he admired it in Lutz, and the other men who held this virtue close. Time to eat it. If he wanted to get stronger after this, well, time for some tough self love, and then even more critical self-examination. It was time for humility now, a dirty word, but one of those things like honor that you couldn't escape in the end. "It's the cost of war, and I'm the army with a country. Sometimes you just have to take the consequences."

Voices and angry stomping broke what Prussia personally thought of as a brilliant moment of soul searching. He scowled, and timed his next exhale right as Southern Italy reached them. The short boy spluttered, beginning to swear, while Northern Italy predictably waved at them. "Hi. Um, are we late?"

"Better not fucking be after that bullshit with Austria. Fuck you potato bastards!" Romano scowled, pushing toward the door [38].

Northern Italy stayed long enough to be apologetic for the rudeness. "I'm sorry. We had to interrupt siesta to get here, and, well, mi fratello can be short tempered when he doesn't get enough sleep."

"Ah, so Antonio really hasn't stopped bugging him since 1282 [39]," the joke was quick and pretty biting, but Gilbert did not seem to find the joy in it he normally would have.

Ludwig just pinched the bridge of his nose. "Perhaps if you set your regimen so that siesta time was not during the hours of business this would not be a problem."

Northern Italy considered this, and then grinned. "That would help, but, veh, why don't the business hours set themselves so they aren't at siesta time? Ve, see you over the treaty table, Germany!"

The door closed on them as well. Prussia smiled indulgently after the shorter man. "If only all our enemies were like that, huh? We could steamroller Europe, and then get a very nice lunch out of the whole thing. Doncha just want to take him home again?"

"_No_," Ludwig told his brother forcefully. "Remember the mess in the kitchen? You don't want him in the house."

"Well, I suppose so," Prussia acquiesced. "Well, time to face the music."

They both stood still, instead, not wanting to end what had been their best moment after centuries of mess. Begin in a mess. End in a mess. Well, Prussia wouldn't allow the stupid allies to pull him away from Lutz that easily. He would stick with his brother until the very end, just see if he did not. He'd survived the other wars of his life, either as the victor, or doggedly clinging on by the skin of his teeth.

One last drag. Ordo domus Sanctæ Mariæ Theutonicorum Hierosolymitanorum. Prusy Kisążęce. Brandenberg-Preußen. Königreich Preußen. Freistaat Preußen. The stub dropped to the carpet, where Prussia ground the still burning embers into the fleur de lis with grim vengeance, forever ruining the warp.

Ludwig knocked at the door, as Prussia pulled at his tunic, straightening the hem. It was opened cautiously by the cloud headed New Zealand. The two Germans looked at each other, tense, grim. Red and blue, they faced the now crowded treaty room, and walked in together, backs straight.

* * *

**July, 1919 – Tornio, Finland**

Sometimes it seemed as though Tino's life was nothing but a series of borders. Okay, that wasn't really true, but it had a nice ring to it. He looked up at America, showing an open, happy face. "It was really wonderful of you to come out all this way just to see me. I never expected more than the letter, honestly [40]. We are really out of the way, even for England. You had to cross that whole ocean. I'm really honored. I'm sorry everything is in such a mess."

They looked around, not by any sort of spoken agreement, but just because Tino had drawn attention to what they all had been trying to ignore up to that point. At least the weather had been good enough that meeting outside of the town had been an acceptable solution. If a person looked south from the little field with it's picnic blanket they could see the sad little houses. A land could feel the lack of people.

America just laughed. "Haha. Wow. This is really nice compared to some of the stuff in France. What do you call these flowers?"

"Um, flowers?" Tino ventured. "I'm sorry. The really lovely ones don't bloom until the autumn."

England cleared his throat. "How are you doing? I don't want to be a bore, you understand, but the situation in Russia is—,"

"Russia-like?" Finland suggested tactfully. "Well, I would be lying if I said the only reason that we are as far west as I can go was because I wanted to show you the wonders of the country side. Not that it isn't beautiful, of course. You see that church over there?" He pointed at a black spire rising from the town surmounted on a slender white column. From this angle the actual building was blocked by trees. "When France was last here he said it was one of the most beautiful buildings he'd ever seen. I really liked that. He's seen a lot of beautiful buildings."

Coughing again, Britain glared at nothing in particular. "And burned them down."

Tino shrugged. They all had. He raised an unmarked bottle. "Would you like some? Finest lighter fluid strained through cheesecloth and marinated in potato water."

America grinned. "Sounds great. I'm sorry, I should have brought some of this rum Canada gave me recently. You'd love it."

Frostily, Arthur stared at America. "What is my Dominion doing, giving _you_ anything?"

"Being a good brother, old man," the smile tugging on America's cheek was turning sour. "I just escaped a prohibition law back home, and he wanted to congratulate me [41]."

England made that coughing sound again. "It's none of my business, of course, but doesn't _he_ have one?"

Finland, pouring a little into the tin cup he had brought, wondered if he should inform America that drinking was currently banned here as well. Probably not. Exuberant as the boy was, Tino did not want to give yet another opportunity to scream "Bolshevik!" which had been his reaction to, well, landing at the airport and hearing Finnish, the state of the roads, the lack of accommodation, and England's presence. Well, that last one was probably just his idea of a joke.

As Finland passed the battered cup to America, he fished around in the picnic basket for a second one for England. "So, why did you decide to come and see me, officially? I'm pleased, of course, but to be honest, I'm surprised."

England tapped his fingers on the red and white blanket. "We wanted to make certain that democracy was progressing here. Russia is, well, you would know better than I. And Germany, well—,"

"Eh, I just wanted to get out of the house for a bit," America interjected. He lay back, hands behind his head, smiling at the sky. Finland was beginning to wonder about that smile. It had changed shape and consistency through out the journey, but it had never really left the boy's face. As though it was painted on.

Feeling the irritation of England building on his right, Finland tried to think of something to say. Once upon a time he had been so good at distracting people. "Well, I'm happy to accommodate. I don't often get days off from work, so this is very nice," some bug on fragile wings flew over America's face. "Say, any idea why they call it a-a-a 'buh-ter-fly' in English? I've never seen much about them that reminds me of a dairy," Finland grinned.

America laughed. "I like that. Can't you just imagine little pats of butter sprouting wings and flying about? It would be so cute."

England, thinking about the matter in a serious manner, as he would, Finland reflected, frowned. "It would be very messy for the flowers, though."

True enough, Finland nodded. "On the other hand, every morning people would get their exercise running around with rye bread and a net. Breakfast would become a meal that you ate on the run, trying to catch enough butterflies for lunch."

"Butterfly collecting: now a full contact sport," Alfred smiled. "You know, I'm beginning to think that we should solve all of our differences with sport. Think about it, we'd meet in big arenas and play football."

Finland thought that kicking balls around the field, while nice, it would be better if they had a sport that he could practice more than a few months out of the year. "Too bad we don't settle things that way. It used to be that the European powers were big fans of Dano-Swedish wars, but that has fallen out of favor, recently."

England rolled his eyes. "Good thing, too. It was always a mess."

Guessing that the green eyed man had lost his last few bets with the Hanseatic league, Finland marveled at how long England could hold a grudge. "It helps that Denmark hasn't been around much," the older land commented. "I had thought that it was just Russia's instability that was keeping me from hearing any news about him, but I gathered from Germany that he hasn't been up to much for a long time."

England nodded grimly. "Germany's fault, actually. I helped hold Prussia off the first time, but Denmark was partitioned by Austria and Prussia, and well, while they were nicer about it than they were to Poland, it can't have been a pleasant experience."

"Ohhhhhhhhh," America's jaw went slack, as he gazed at England. "That was why he was so weird at Versailles. I thought it was funny that he didn't seem to want the land, while you insisted on giving it to him [42]."

Tino's eyes crinkled in just a bit of a smile. "You've always had a soft spot for Denmark, England. But then again, there once was a time when the game was to set Denmark and Norway against each other [43]."

Shifting restlessly, England tried very hard not to appear affronted. It was never polite to feel as though you were offended by your host's words. "I have never liked the balance of power that piece of land gave Prussia and Germany. Denmark was simply an excuse."

Waving fingers through lazy summer air America interrupted again, possibly tired of a conversation involving people he only knew distantly. "This is nice, you know. You wouldn't think that anything bad could happen here."

Finland had brought them up through cities where only brick columns showed what had once been grand buildings. He had circled around camps filled with starving men and women. Something choked in his throat, and Finland began to cough, convulsing around his curled chest. England reached him first, shoving a well meaning handkerchief in his face, and yelling that America was a stupid little tosser to do whatever he had done to his host.

Nervously, glasses and blonde hair crossed Finland's streaming vision, making him start involuntarily. The young man pressed his own handkerchief to the shorter man's cheeks, catching the water that the explosiveness of his coughing had caused. But, as Tino knew from the few times that he had been too sick to work during the Union, having two people who can't get along to save their lives trying to help you generally lead to less help, and more fighting. Indeed, the hands started trying to shove each other out of the way, until, exasperated, Tino grabbed the nearest wrist. His coughs, no longer covered began to spatter the other two with red liquid, until he managed to get his body under control once more.

He glanced up. Blue and green returned his stare, wide-eyed.

England, whose wrist he held, went red, and he jerked away. "I'm sorry. I had no idea it was so bad."

"We're getting better," Tino sighed. "It's just the revolution, and then the Civil War—I still don't feel so good. France must be doing horribly after everything that happened to him.

England shook his head. "He's seen better times, certainly. But he isn't letting that dampen his spirits. Which is good, I suppose," the man brightened up. "I don't have to feel bad about wanting to smash his face in when he refuses to appear like the pathetic shell he is. Besides, gloating over Alsace-Lorraine is doing wonders."

This clearly troubled America. "That doesn't sound like something a good person would do."

"Here's a hint that even you can understand: France is not a good person," the older man returned dryly.

Oh, England. Finland was not certain whether he should be exasperated or simply pleased to see that apparently nothing would ever really change. As it was easier to be pleased, Finland chose that option. There had been far too much strife in recent years, even if what he really wanted to do was smash the picnic basket into the side of England's head, and yell at America that there was no such thing as a good person because they all got _killed_ before they could make any difference, and stop the bad things from happening.

The glasses glinted for a moment, as America readjusted them on his nose. "F-Finland? You are doing all right, right? I—It took me a long time to get over my civil war. I still get nightmares."

Finland stood, looking toward the Swedish border. He grinned down at the two on the picnic blanket. "I'm—I'm working on it. I'm very glad that you stopped by. You should take out some food. I'm just going to, going to take a bit of a walk."

The boy appeared very troubled. "Are you sure? Because talking helps! Really. I used to go sit in the chamber where the states convene after the war was over, and talk to them, and they'd talk to me, and it all started making sense, after a while. Or, well, it never made _sense_, but it stopped feeling so bad."

"I'll keep that in mind," Finland waved, heading deeper into the grass.

Behind him, voices lilted on the breeze. _I-I did not realize that it was that—That events had affected you so deeply._

_Ahah. Really, everything's better. Romano keeps saying I need to get over it. It's just a civil war, after all. There've been thousands._

_He only responds that way because he has always had the advantage of fighting his brother. It is different when you have—when you have to watch as your people tear one another apart._

_I didn't watch, Arthur._

_Ah. No, we don't watch. I had just hoped, I suppose. Your side of the ocean has always seemed so—refreshing. But these things are universal. _A thought filled pause. Then, suddenly suspicious:_ Exactly what are you doing, talking to Romano about this?_

Before the answer could be voiced, Finland moved out of ear shot. That had been unexpectedly good to hear. He had always felt a little worried about leaving America with no one but Netherlands, and while the stories that got back about his tenure under England's care, and subsequent rebellion, were hair curling, America had turned out all right. Really very sweet and kind.

If only Finland's own territories were that easy going. But first, he needed to get over the war. Then he could turn his mind to things like international relations. At some point, Åland was going to realize that Finland was his own country, and never going to return to Sweden. This all He—all heck would break loose. And here he had always thought that Lappi was going to be the most problematic. However, Sweden had done him a favor, it turned out, sending her to work in his iron mines [44]. If only such foresight had managed to turn the youngest against Sweden as well, instead of making Åland idolize him, things would be much easier. Sadly, this was not the case.

Tino stopped amid the bushes, realizing that he had walked quite far from the hill he had picked out for lunch, and not realized it. Looking around, he tried to sort out his thoughts. They were filled with gaps and holes. Did he feel ready to face his guests once more?

Before the twig snapped, Finland was aware that he was being watched. As the report echoed around the scrub, he instinctively ducked, rolling into safer cover, a stolen Russian revolver appearing to hand. Peering out, he had already sighted on the enemy before his brain started functioning, and told Finland that this was Sweden. Still, potentially an enemy.

Finland stood, glancing around, just in case this was a diversion. No. No one else was lurking, human, or nation. "Ruotsi."

The surprise in the blue eyes turned to hurt. Sweden nodded at him. Don't feel guilty, Tino. He's not—Too much has happened. It's not your job to comfort him. _It never was, you idiot. Just because you can't deal with him right now doesn't mean that you have to be mean._

Silence stretched into a tight wire. Sweden, with his typical inabilities at speaking merely coiled it around himself, and waited for a moment when he could be comfortable enough to say things.

That left Finland to continue, but Tino did not feel particularly talkative either. Finally, though, everything became too oppressive. "What are you doing on my land? I thought that we had agreed. You were going to stay on your side of the border."

A confused blink. Shock. "I am."

Tino yelped, his face instantly becoming, he was certain, a flashing red light, as he reached out to discover that this was Swedish land on which he was standing. He had crossed a river without noticing! "Oh goodness! I'm so sorry. You're right! I had no idea. I was lost in thought you see, and, well, one thing lead to another. I've gotten so—," but as the words continued to pour from Finland, he caught the gentle amusement from behind the lenses, and the faint relaxation around Sweden's lips. His version of a smile.

At last, as Finland wound down, Sweden tilted his head to one side, looking at his old lover's outstretched hand. "Mmm. Cud y'not po'nt th't at me? Since y're not on y'r land."

Looking down at the pistol, Tino laughed quietly, and holstered the gun inside his jacket. "You're being very good about a potential international incident."

"Seen y' shoot. Wud rather stay alive th'n compla'n 'nd be dead," Sweden replied seriously, although his eyelids—always a place to watch as slight twitches there gave entirely new emotions to his words—were half shut in merriment.

Finland felt himself reply with a nod. "I can see that might be preferable. I'll just be goin—,"

Sweden put out a hand to stop him. "Wait. Y' d'n't 've t' go."

He really did not. Oh, America and England would wonder where he was, but he would be back at some point. Or he could bring Sweden with him, and together—

_Something sailed overhead to crash against the brick work, before exploding in a flare of glory. Tino and Berwald crouched together, trying to shield bodies that needed no shielding from shards of brick. Two humans screamed. Nations should not do this, Tino thought, as he ran for the nearest man. One of the Whites. His partizan. But the leg was gone, and the stomach punctured. Lightly, Tino placed a hand on the man's forehead, wishing him all the best, before slitting his throat with a knife he had picked up from somewhere._

"I think I do," Finland told Sweden quietly.

Thoughts and arguments marshaled on both sides, standing bravely while locked in heads, but probably shrinking violets in the light of day.

Sweden took the reply, readying his offensive with a plaintive tone. "Why?"

Why indeed? For a moment, irritation swept Finland. Why had Ruotsi come help him slaughter his own people? Why had he not been there when he should have been? Why did the sight of that awkward attempt at a smile still make Finland feel as though now would be a really good time to dance?

Finland found his parry quickly enough. "Why didn't you tell me what it was like to be a land of your own?"

A blink. Then Sweden looked away, shame eating him from the soles of his feet to his messy hair. Tino took the answer to be silence. Anger seeped in. Anger he had held at bay, because there had been more important things. There still were more important things, but this hurt, and he had never been able to talk about it. "You knew? You knew you were keeping me numb, and incapable of feeling my land the way it should be felt. I had barely any notion of the power I should have held when you came to take it away from me, and yet you still said you—you," Finland couldn't say 'love.' Not while he was angry. That would take the meaning from the word, and make it tawdry. "If you really cared—," oh _God_ he was not going to say that, either. Not going to go there. That was spiteful.

"I d'dn't th'nk 'bout it," the last few words had been too much for Sweden. "Y'd 've st'rved, 'r died on y'r own. Inna w'rld tha' m'kes men like me more'n ones like you—Thought was pr'tectin' y'. 'Nd th'n knew y'd leave me, 'therwise."

Which was what had happened, in a round about way. It wasn't as though Tino had not known that Berwald had more than a few logical fallacies that he firmly clung to (that 'wife' thing, for a start). Tino rubbed his temples. Why was all of this so difficult? It should be simple. I hadn't seen you in ages, so that's you're side of the border, please stay there, because I'm still getting flashbacks, or something from last year, and they make me want to crumble in a corner and cry.

But it was not that easy. "You shouldn't have gotten involved in my civil war," that had not been what Tino meant to say, because that was not the reason he was angry.

Not entirely. If Sweden hadn't gotten involved, maybe he would have switched sides. Maybe he would not. Finland would never know. He wasn't certain that he could consider himself his own country, even now. What had he ever been, but something on the knife's edge between Sweden and Russia?

"Shudn't've left y' t' Russia," Sweden replied, scowling, either angry at himself, or angry with Russia.

Tino wondered if anything could ever be Finland's fault in Sweden's eyes. At some point he was going to have to take those glasses, just to see if that was what made Ruosti's world view so strange. "There were worse crimes. I needed to learn what being autonomous really meant."

Sweden retreated a few steps, that pain back in his face, pulling the muscles into a frown. "Dinn't mean—C'n I see y'? 'S y'r neighbor. 'R friend. 'R anythin' y' want."

Of course, because everything wasn't already complicated enough, Tino's brain had to make that last sentence one that Hungary would have been proud of. Finland coughed, discovering that England's chest ailment must be catching. How horrible, to be allergic to awkward moments. "I'm working through some things right now."

Sweden stared at him, face fallen. Then he nodded.

That was it, then. He had formally broken ties, or at least, as much as he dared, without humans around to point out that diplomatic relations would be irreparably soured. Finland felt irreparably soured. This was not how he wanted his life to go. It was not what he had meant. Yet, this was the answer. Supposedly.

"'M gud at list'nin'," Sweden blurted out. "'F y' need 'n ear."

The smiled creeping up on Finland's face was genuine, and Tino discovered mortifyingly close to an evil calculating smirk. "I've already got two, but I suppose I should start a collection [45]. Does it come with tall mountain of a man attached, or is that only included if I buy two tonics from the same company?"

Sweden considered the question. "Y'll have t' talk to th' man'ger 'f all t'll m'nt'ins of men, Mr. Viänämöinen. 'V'rythin's up t' him."

It was, wasn't it? With an awkward wave, Tino turned back towards the border that he always seemed to be straddling.

* * *

**May 1940 – A forest in Sør Trøndelag, Norway (Femundsmarka, Norway)**

Why weren't the forests thicker? Norway groaned, as he ducked behind the thick bole of another pine. His Walther was ready, but there seemed to be no end of Germans running through his forests, and he only had so many bullets. Normally humans tried not to engage nations. Normally, of course, nations accepted travesties done to their governments with grace and poise. But until Germany and Prussia staked him down to a table, and rewrote his precious constitution on his flesh, Norway would fight. And even then they had better be ready for troll fist to the face.

This was close to the Swedish border, though. Hopefully he would be able to duck over, slink through the trees, and then head North to where the fighters needed his presence. The Germans had been told about breaking Sweden's neutrality. It was possibly the first time, ever, that Norway had ever been grateful for how strong his neighbor had always been, rather than resentful. The fact that the German attitude was probably brought about by the need for good trade relations, which a war and invasion would invariably mess up, no matter who won, was a small niggling factor to Norway. Just one of a thousand other reasons why things happened.

Another tree. He forged eastward. Shouts, German swearing, and then bullets followed him to his next point of cover. Oh, right. A nation couldn't die. His head was cool. Cold even. If only the grass was snow. On skis, these men would have been dead kilometers back. Still, he was a nation and they were only humans. With him fighting here, he had hoped to draw Prussia and Germany away from England and France up by Narvik. Sadly, no such luck had followed. Prussia had been on his trail earlier in the week, but the man had more important things to do. Norway had heard last night in the villages where he had stayed that Netherlands and Belgium were being invaded, maybe had already fallen. If Ludwig was up in the sea, and Norway would not be Norway if he did not know who was in his waters at any given time, that left Prussia to tackle the two siblings.

He was not important, then.

Popping out from behind the tree, Norway shot off two rounds, the hot cartridges ejecting themselves with each report, and falling to the ground. A man screamed, the long wail of the wounded. Fatally so, probably, but a slow death. Norway's first target was already dead.

The trees were thinning. He was either close enough to the road that the border could not be all that distant, or this was just another patch of gound he would regret covering with a company of ten Germans slowly surrounding him. With late spring most of the power of the land was tied up in blossoming leaves, and growing flowers. The earth underfoot was spending itself in fertility. Which was all to the good. His own reserves were strong.

But he needed the high ground, and he needed to be rid of these people before they started doing something that would successfully capture him. Pump enough bullets into a nation, after all, and it wouldn't have time to correct the damage. Norway had the advantage that he could do magic. He didn't need anything but sheer stubborn will for that, but for that you needed a brain, and if the Germans were after a nation, they probably knew what kind of nation he was.

To the south there was a rock formation with a grimly determined tree clinging to its summit. He would have to back track. The humans were, dark eyes closed, counting off the sounds they made, left, left, behind him to the center, right. Grass and pine cones rustled. That sign of humanity came from the north-east. They really were surrounding him. Trying to push him back to his own land. How clever and amusing.

He darted away, bounding like a hare towards freedom. Bullets tore chunks and clods of earth at his heels. Four distinct explosions of sound. He whipped to the left, whirling to face his pursuers. The fifth man was taking aim. Careful careful aim, half hidden by a tree. No need to waste bullets.

Norway spun once more, and continued toward the outcropping. Someone in a dark uniform was blazing against the green. Rushing to intercept him. The Walther snapped his wrist as he fired, not really seeing the indistinct shape. Humans against a nation? He was a force of nature!

Aiming for the projecting tree roots Norway jumped over the twitching German, more shorts whizzing past him. He scrabbled, his fingers digging into the rock, for a second only supported by the very tips, exposed. It was then that the fifth man took his shots. Five rounds of fire and pain buried themselves into Norway's back. A sixth shot slammed into the back of his right hand. The last two missed, making stone chips explode in his face.

Teeth gritted against screams that no one of importance would hear, Norway hauled himself to the summit, and rolled. He hadn't meant to roll, but his body had lost all strength in his relief to be at his goal. The world flashed on and off for a few minutes. The blue sky, eaten at the edges of Norway's vision by the tops of green prickly pines, was a peaceful blank that anchored him against the pain.

Pressing one hand into the grass and sun dried earth, Norway thought of the spicy scent of unfurling leaves, and the power of arms raising axes to split logs. The quickness of Spring, and the ripe power of Autumn, one final burst of glory.

The pine cones answered his call, old tired, extinct seeds revitalized. Norway grinned in fierce joy at the sky. He was a nation, and they were dead men walking. He would never be ground under their foul heels. Subjugate him? Never. No one was welcome on _his_ land.

He pushed the surging green hate in his veins into the pine cone right under one of the men carefully advancing. The tree potential took hold, and fifty years of growth exploded from the earth, shooting up and strengthening itself, feeding off the fighting anger that Norway had unearthed.

A scream, quickly silenced by bristling needles and powerful magic, gave Norway the energy to twist onto his stomach once more. Unconsciousness claimed his battered body.

There were better ways to fight, certainly. Less energy consuming. Quicker to kill. But without his power the explosive growth could not sustain itself, and the poorly set roots withered. The tree rocked.

Norway came back to the world in time to see the plant, mauled corpse and all, topple right on two more men. Face to the ground, Norway almost kissed it. There were better ways to fight, even though movement of his body only made him wonder what blows his forces were taking from each bullet. It was so hard to tell where his life as a man ended, and the nation began these days. Maybe he was crippled. Maybe his immortal body would just have to heal, and nothing had happened to his men. Maybe a small earthquake was rocking the land. Who knew any more?

There were better ways to fight, but surprised shouts, and repetitive chants told him that he was winning the war of nerves with the humans. Grabbing the trunk of the tree, Norway hauled himself upward, telling himself that it would just hurt worse to fall again, or vomit (his two basic choices at this point). His wreck of a hand tried to reach for the gun he had tucked in his waistband for the jump. Why, why, why, why was he so dumb?

Leaning against the tree he fumbled with the weapon as the humans below struggled to release their trapped friend from the tree. The marksman of the group was slotting a new round into his clip. Norway's flat eyes glittered with menace, as he brought his own pistol up. Who was faster?

In his trembling state, the gun pulled excessively to the left, shooting past the marksman's face with the first bullet, before dropping him with the rapid second shot. The third hit the next German in the chest, puncturing his lung, if doing no worse damage. From under hooded eyes Norway looked at the two trapped men. Broken, shattered bones from the waist down, certainly. Good.

Closing his eyes, Norway pressed his forehead to the tree trunk.

A jay screamed, starting him awake. His back ached. The spent cartridges at his feet might have been his or the ones ejected from his back. Low in the sky, the sunlight winked at him enough to tell Norway that he needed to get moving again. For all that there was no spark of human life out there now, he had allowed too much time to elapse. There would be more people after him, and to the north the cries of fighters carried on the wind. He would do better. He would stand by them, as they stood by him. _Never know when you have to thank an idiot_ [46].

Stumbling upright, he trotted east until there was no more rock to support him. Landing in a dazed sprawl, Norway listened to the little forest noises again, trying to collect a sense of self that did not involve the agony of bones fractured, and muscles torn open in the one place he always needed to move them. The earth under his body was firm and whole. It had forgotten about the German lead that had missed him earlier. The feeling of slowly growing grass intertwined with the munching of earthworms and the buzzing of insects. Slowly Norway trickled into his soil, drawing what strength he could, although weak protests froze him, and pulled him back in his body. There had been enough warping of reality today.

Shoving himself up with the help of his hands, Norway realized from the itching under his shirt that the wounds were now scabbing, swiftly. He owed this forest a lot. Smiling at the beautiful surroundings, he began to trudge east, trying to beat full sunset. Not for any real reason, other than the desire to get to the battle in the north as swiftly as possible. Before any more Germans detained him.

Dog began to howl as the sun touched the horizon. They were serious about this. Norway should have been flattered, it was not often a nation was hunted down by animals, after all. The Germans disliked him enough to be that condescending. Practically a vote of confidence.

Fools.

Ahead of him, the borders abutted one another. Relief. Respite. Maybe even some herring—his stomach growled in agreement with that thought. He was only a few steps away from the freedom of a strong neutral party when Sverige stepped from behind a tree.

The elder's face had locked into a low frown. Several old axe blows to that face were near invisible white lines. Something was getting to the man. Norway stopped. "Sverige."

"Norge."

Howls came through the trees in a distant, distorted jumble that still made the meaning plain. The dogs had found his not-exactly cunningly hidden trail. "I need to—,"

Whunk. The great wooden bar of a staff planted itself in the ground. "T'rn 'round."

A scowl inched its way across Norway's face. "This is no time for games. I'm being hunted by _humans_ for goodness sake."

He forged forward. With a crack, Sweden slammed the butt end of his weapon into Norway's ribs. The strength of the hit sent the slighter nation reeling back. Unlike in times past, Sweden did not press his advantage, remaining on his land, staff now held at the ready.

Norway caught harsh breaths, staring at his neighbor. His neutral neighbor. Not four months ago they had stood together, and given Finland what aid they could spare. Denmark was occupied, and practically German, but Norway was still his independent self.

Sweden gazed impassively at Norway. The staff remained a weapon. Norway schooled his face into a mountain of rock. "I thought that we were going to remain friendly—,"

"Y're 'ccupied t'rrit'ry now. 'Sdifferent," Sweden replied firmly.

The lithe nation considered rushing the towering bulk of his enemy. It would not help, but he would feel _a lot_ better. They traded long stares across the sudden gulf between them. "I suppose," Norway hissed, drawing the only appropriate weapon, "if you couldn't be counted upon for Finland, I should not have deluded myself."

They began to pace the border. Keeping the same twenty meters between them, Sweden was clearly spending his time controlling the urge to cross and wallop Norway. "_Y_'wouldn't let England 'nd Fr'nce land."

"Neither would you," Norway snapped.

Sweden's scowl turned harsh and Sweden-like. "M' g'vernment—,"

Norway sneered. He loved his Størting, but if they had capitulated in the cowardly manner Denmark had, he still would have fought until his lands were ripped to pieces. He was an independent country. "You're a coward, Sweden."

Shutting down a wall against the protests, which were not strong, Norway tracked northward. Sweden's voice was barely audible, anyway. If there was any justice in the world, Sweden would be lost as the rest—

A dog, mad with attacking rage, tore from some underbrush on Norway's side. The stolen German firearm Norway was currently wielding rose, and fired three bullets, right into the charging animal, who did not stop until the second one. Sweden had not blinked.

Sparing the tall man a disgusted look, Norway listened for the dogs, and then began to speed up, keeping parallel to the border, racing to help the people who deserved the help.

* * *

**March 1941 – Oulu, Finland**

He had to _stop_ doing this. It was hurting both of them, and nothing he could do or articulate was going to change the inevitable course of things. Suitcase at his feet Tino looked up without surprise at Sweden. The tall man, bundled up in civilian garb against the wet cool of the March air looked for something to say. Some explanation as to why he had crossed the border when he had not been invited, and had no real excuse.

Tino took the opportunity from him: "Su-san, I wasn't aware of any diplomatic missions. We've concluded our talks for now," he looked at the men near him, bundled up in long coats and fedoras. "Anteeksi, minun täytyy lähteä kävelylle. Palaan ennen junan lähtöä [47]."

Sweden caught himself trying to remember the words he had only half learned. But it was no use. Tino just walked toward one end of the concrete block that served as the platform, simply wishing for some sort of privacy. "What is going on, Sweden?" Finland inquired softly.

Trying to find his voice, Sweden glanced significantly at the passport peeking out of a pocket on Finland's woolly coat. "Y've got peace."

Tino nodded, his mouth tight. They both knew that "for now" was the operative phrase. Russia would regroup and return to smash against the anvil of the north. Russia always returned. Sweden fought for the polite way of saying his thoughts. The bridge between them was so tentative. He had not been enough use in the war. He had not convinced the government of his people's will, or his own. But as long as Russia was the threat, they could—they _would_ fight.

For a second his gloved fingers obscured his mouth, as Sweden rubbed the fine glittering bristle there thoughtfully. "W' might b'all tha's left o' Europe outside'v Germ'ny 'nd Russia's houses."

"England's still fighting," Finland replied with a shrug. "Bulgaria and Turkey are probably going to remain themselves, although I think Bulgaria is trying to take over Greece. Balkan states, I know, but still, there is hope."

Sweden thought of Norway, from whom he had heard nothing since the declaration in July of official occupation. He thought of Denmark, who was backing Germany's demands for the control of the Danish straits, and laughing—not his normal laugh. More like a hollow tick of a sound. Because Denmark pressing against Sweden diplomatically required laughter, not because there was anything funny.

Hope when their two strongest neighbors had been incorporated into the house of Central Europe? Sweden made good money from Germany, and his military was rebuilding into something much stronger, because soon Germany was going to believe that buying ore was pointless when an occupied nation would give it to him. But until then, the balancing act was fine.

"We're all th't's left," Sweden repeated, staring at Finland. "W' need t'be neutral."

Tino's expression of awkward exasperation said it all. Drawing in a breath he scratched at the back of his head just to do something with his hands that left his hair entirely tousled. "I am neutral, Sweden."

The reply made Sweden growl slightly in his chest. Finland did not have to lie to him. Or at least, Tino could try for a little more imagination. "F'r how long? Y'r headin' to Berl'n 'fter y' get back. H'rd y'r dipl'mats say so."

That made Finland wince. "Not very diplomatic of them, huh?"

Sweden just glared downward. He was good at it, glaring. Unfortunately, he was not good at glaring at Tino, so he chose a piece of the platform between their feet to take out his disapproval upon. Finland did not try to make amends. The war had toughened him—or at least made Tino willing to show that side of himself more often. Sweden did not ask how much had happened during the periods where Sweden had blacked out. At least General Winter had left the land.

"It's my choice, Berwald. I have to keep my options open," his voice came from very far away, humming eerily in the gulf between them.

Seeing that, Sweden would have nodded, but the unsettled feeling in Berwald pervaded. Tino was getting too harsh. He had been this way after the Civil War as those camps of his closed one by one. The thick skin was disturbing. Was Tino changing past all recognition? "Th'y hate Finns," the tall blond managed after a moment's thought [48].

Tino smiled ironically. "I know that, but the enemy of your enemy, right? I'm no idiot. Diplomatic relations with Russia have been breaking down in the Third Reich. Part of it is probably Prussia, but I heard even Ludwig is beginning to get into fights with Russia over Poland.

Something went cold in Sweden's mind. It took him a few minutes to figure it out, but when he did, revulsion swept over him in a wave. "L'dvish?" anger made the name a near snarl.

Tino just raised an eyebrow, quickly covering any shame that he might have felt. "Yes. I've been on human terms with him since the Revolution. Both him and Gilbert. Am I not supposed to look out for my interests abroad, and make friends, Berwald? Especially when my neighbors prevent me from getting help by normal means."

Reminding Finland how his government, and to some extents his own desire to keep Germany from that excuse that they were waiting for to attack him, had betrayed Finnish interests had not been his intention. But his duty was not to protect Finnish interests. He was the Kingdom of Sweden, and he had to act like it. Tino had made that clear enough last January.

"If y'were in union wi' me," Sweden began, and then stopped.

The platform itself quieted as a seething angry rolled from the ground. Finland gave him a _long_ look. They had talked about this. Their governments had talked about this. Sverige returning Finland to his house, and waiting out the war, the most Aryan nation protecting the less 'pure' (had Sweden ever had any admiration for Germany's intelligence, that stupid notion had squashed it). Sverige, putting Finland's map back inside his skin.

Sweden could imagine it all too easily. In the train ride down here he had allowed his imagination play with the long-dead notion. Tino in his house. Someone to make breakfast for, a voice filling the empty corners with easy chatter, someone who would make that echoing set of rooms feel lived in once more. He had almost moved back to the military academy several times, where he had not boarded since the 1800s. At least in the small dormitory and office set up he never had the room to feel the cold seeping through an isolated world. But military lodgings meant something unacceptable for a nation focused on the well-being of his people.

But the idea had been quashed months previously, and from the stillness holding Finland, Sweden had absolutely crossed the line in the land by even mentioning it once more.

"Ruotsi, we have been over this and over this and over this!" it was amazing how much force Tino could put behind words without even raising his voice. "This is not an option any more! I cannot be 'neutral' _when_ Russia invades again. He has Karjala! I cannot give up my power and the decisions of my men to those quibbling fishwives you call a Riksdag!"

Purple eyes went wide, and the anger in the ground evaporated. Embarrassment spread in a fierce red blush from his cheeks.

Sweden should have defended his fi—Riksdag. If his comments about Union had been out of line, so was calling his government quarreling women. Instead a slight smile slipped through. "Y'owe'n 'pology t'all fishwives."

Finland paused for a half beat, but an understanding twinkle lit in Tino's eyes. "Most certainly. I apologize heartily. I really am sorry, though. My comments were uncalled for."

Sweden could only respond with a single shrug. "Y'meant them."

He was an idiot living in a past that would never exist. He had to stop doing this. Finding excuses to see Tino. Be with him. There was a war flaring across the continent, and not two hours before he had been idly day dreaming of the warmth another body could bring to bed. His neighbors were occupied, or on the brink of war, and he was being simply excessively stupid.

Finland smiled slightly. He turned to head back towards the humans gathered in a chattering magpie crowd. "There are better ways of expressing, um, extreme negative disagreement with proposed plans."

Such as? Sweden could use a hint right now, because he had to make something clear: "Y'know I c'n't—in Berl'n, if y' join 'em, Konungariket Sverige won't aid y'."

The slight smile that he could see on the corners of Tino's mouth faded away. "You know your people's mind best, Su-san," the regret in the voice slapped him. "Even if it means not taking on Russia."

"R'ssia isn't th' only en'my," Sweden almost barked, his voice low enough so that only Finland heard him, even as the other walked away at a brisk place.

Finland waved a tired gloved hand. Farewell. Because if Russia was not Sweden's only enemy, he was the only one Finland held to be of any importance. Tino had all but admitted that he would be trying his best to cling to any strong ally he could sway to attacking Russia with a passion. What Sweden thought mattered little if he was not willing to fight for Finland's continued freedom with the ferocity of the lion he had once been.

But Norway was missing. Denmark was slowly ticking closer to either exploding, or becoming Nazi himself. The Baltic and North Sea were too dangerous for any but the desperate to ply sail. There were huge masses of iron heading through Sweden's land to Narvik. There was a cold and unfeeling machine making all the mistakes that Sweden had made, and that machine burned with the ice of hate. There was darkness in the world, and Sweden had to go home, and set a light in the window in his own attempt to fight it. Was he doing enough?

A train whistled loudly, the thrum of its wheels merging with his beating heart. Tino took the last few meters to the delegation at a run. Soon he would be journeying back to Helsinki. Then, from there, he would be heading to Berlin, to meet with his precious Ludwig, and speak about the things that Germany wanted to hear, and Finland knew would place the man in his power.

In exchange, the tall foreign nation on this little platform would be heading home on the next train west. Sweden was doing his duty. That was enough.

* * *

**November 1942 – Copenhagen, Denmark**

A hissing from below the bridge surprised Denmark. He was in the act of pouring more whiskey into his coffee as he watched the sun rise over the harbor basin from the thin metal rails that would probably be reduced to scrap for some German tank. Looking down Denmark nearly spilled his bottle into the upturned face.

"Norge? What the Hell are you doing here?"

The very damp looking nation was, as far as he could see, clinging like grim death to rusty iron beams. From the impatient flash of the blue eyes Norway was trying to bite back a similar response. Denmark leaned forward, hoping that no one was going to come along and push him over.

Norway, for his part, worked on getting a better foothold in a pair of bracers. "Well, I'm not practicing my mountain climbing," he growled. "Give me a hand, will you? I've been here since four AM, and despite my normal climate, I'm beginning to get cold."

Eagerly, Denmark picked up his axe, which had been leaning next to his bicycle, and lowered the shaft so that Norway had something to grab onto. With a little grunting, and awkward pulling, Norway was on the bridge, teeth chattering a little, as the wind gusted off the water. "Thanks."

"No problem," Denmark replied, placing the axe against the railing once more, and offering the amber bottle so the other nation could do something about his chills. "Hey, if you want, we can go get a quick bite—,"

Norge looked at him. The expression was flat and dull, and Denmark could not tell what was lurking behind those disinterested eyes, but it was something. "Go to a little stand where any German could see me. Yeah. That sounds good. Did it even cross your small mind, that I might have been clinging to the underside of a bridge because I wanted to do something less obvious?"

Denmark sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, feeling a the bump of an old break under the skin. "Then why are you here?"

Norge became a study in near-contempt, his hands in his pockets. "I can't tell you that."

Irritation rubbed into Denmark's mind. He had been excited to see Norway. It had been—he couldn't place the immediate feeling, but the shock of the familiar face in the gray blue dawn had been a good one. He dropped his outstretched hand to his side, and began feeling around in his coat for the cork to the bottle. "So I'm good enough to pull you onto a bridge, but not to trust."

Dark blue eyes told him that he was being an idiot. "You're an occupied nation. For all I know, you sympathize with the bastards. You're certainly a collaborator."

Stopper in hand, Denmark took a long drink first, and then corked the glass lips. He glared at Norway. Fine. You know what? Fine. It was _only_ his own city, and he had _only_ helped Norge out three minutes ago. Shoving the bottle back into his pockets, Denmark moved for his bicycle.

He could feel Norway's eyes on the back of his neck, trying to bore into him, and pierce his soul. However, Norge wouldn't say anything. He never said anything. Certainly not an apology, no matter how much— "Danmark, I need a place to hide for the night. That's what I'm doing here."

Denmark pretended to ignore the statement. It was not a _collaborator's_ place to offer safety to anyone. Safety. Norge actually asking for help for once, in his own way, of course, but he had asked. The old nation sighed. "C'mon then."

Instead of actually getting on the bike they began walking down the street, the bicycle beging used as a barrier between them. No cars were abroad right now, but that would change in a few minutes. Denmark frowned. Norway was dressed as any civilian, but most men did not look as though they had gone for a bath in their clothes. Stopping for a moment, he propped his bike against his hip, and unbuttoned the long military coat. "Put this on, will ya? You look like you just dragged yourself from the sea, and that's suspicious."

"Any more suspicious than wearing a coat for an army that does not control it's own land?" Norway inquired, shrugging the coat on.

Stung by the comment, his benefactor felt Sweden-like lines appearing between his eyebrows. "Hey, I'm being a nice guy right now! You should recognize that."

Norway just let one eyebrow slide critically upward, as he fastened the dark material. "I am recognizing the realities of my situation."

One of those realities, Denmark couldn't help noticing, and being rather pleased by, was that the coat was just a little too big for the man, and wrinkled oddly as Norway found the pockets. He snickered, as they began walking again, bicycle now facing the street. "Well, I was going to say that it's not unusual for me to be walking around with one of the home guard. But most of my home guard are snappy fellows, and you wouldn't pass muster. To be unsuspected, you probably would have to knock me out, and then steal my bike."

"Don't tempt me," Norway replied, hunching slightly, and making the wrinkles look slightly more natural. "You get your bike stolen a lot?"

Denmark shrugged. "Only when I'm stupid."

Norway nodded. "All the time, then."

The urge to get Norway in a headlock, or just hug the man for the amusement of getting revenge grew in the pit of Denmark's stomach. Ambling and rambling. It was a good combination. You'd almost think that this was a game, rather than a war.

They passed a bakery, the bustle of getting ready for the new day happening beyond those dark windows, and on the corner someone was setting up their tea urn for the crowds who would be heading to work in a few minutes. If it weren't for the fact that over half of the people stopping at the small barrow spoke German and made change with Reichsmarks you wouldn't know that anything was wrong.

Hopefully the way they were walking seemed just as natural. They had the advantage that humans often zoned them out, forgetting what walked among them every day. Denmark wished he could be certain that the German authorities weren't watching him. The paper had said that France was causing problems in both North Africa and at home; the real Francis, _and _that puppet Germany had put in his place [49]. Hopefully that meant the SS officers reporting to Prussia were too busy looking after the rebellious nations, and not passive Denmark. Maybe it had been a bad idea to cut those telegram lines two weeks ago. Not that anyone could prove it had been the nation who had done it, but Germany and Prussia had to be suspicious and on their guard since April and the anger from Belgium and the Netherlands over the new Jewish rules [50].

Norway stared at the overcast lightening sky. "You think it will rain?"

Denmark could have felt it out, but instead he just laughed quietly. "Planning to sneak away in the downpour?"

The bicycle squeaked along, emphasizing the thoughtful pose of his companion.

"Anything is possible."

That was true enough. Denmark let his eyes lazily follow a police patrol on the other side of the street. They were scrutinizing him very closely. He grinned, waving at the keepers of law and order, before turning to Norway, and keeping his voice low. "Maybe you should try speaking in Danish, huh? People will hear you talking like a nation—,"

Norway silenced him with a glare. "If I chose to speak anything, I'd speak Norwegian."

"Oh good. I'll tell the Germans that you were drinking too much this morning," Denmark perked up, ignoring the promise of murder that flashed through Norway's entire being.

Trying to find a release valve for his frustrations, the other man gave vent to an explosive sigh. Denmark did not bother hiding the chuckle as they turned the corner. "So, what are your plans?"

The question caught the sandy blond off guard. "I didn't know I had any—,"

"Surely you had something in mind before you discovered me clinging to the girders," Norway replied, as they turned another corner.

To this, all Denmark could do was shrug. "I sometimes go to watch parliament. Train with the home guard. Look in on the police. Mostly, I walk around admiring things. And drinking, but I've always done that. Always done the other stuff, too, I guess."

He glanced at Norway. As expected from this confession, the northerner was frowning. Denmark wondered if Norway actually cared, or he was just angry that Denmark was not fighting harder. Probably it looked as if Denmark was not fighting at all. Maybe it was even true. An ugly thought.

They reached the door to his building. He had moved into the apartment some time ago, enjoying the fact of neighbors. Today, of course, neighbors were a bit of a down side. Some men were hurrying down the stairs as they made their way up. Beyond a wave, and a smiled 'God morgen [51],' these people passed by unremarked. On the third floor, it took far too long for the keys to slip into the lock. Surely the little old lady at the end of the hall was going to come out to begin sweeping the floor as she always did. Harmlessly crazy as she was, she still knew everything that happened in the building, and told anyone who asked what was going on. Norway would be noticed, and commented upon.

But soon enough they were in, and Denmark was in the enviable position to shut the door, and breathe easily. "Okay. So, why are you really here, Norge?"

Caught in the act of shucking off the coat, and looking around for the right peg, Norway blinked. "I told you: I can't—,"

"Tell me anything because I'm in Prussia's pocket, or whatever you want to think," Denmark waved it off contemptuously, heading for the kitchen. He could hear Norway's light step making the floorboards creak behind him. "Well, the way I see it, people who ask to be put up for the night should probably at least do their host the courtesy of explaining why he should be risking German reprisals for sheltering them, yeah?"

Knowing Norway's habits, and hoping that he still had some form of liquid peace offering, Denmark opened the cabinets above the sink. Yes. There was a small bag of ground coffee. Pride that he had managed to save that warred with the impatience of waiting for Norway's answer. Wasn't he showing Norway that he was being a _good_ host? That he was trustworthy? Denmark brought down the coffee in its foil, pointedly placing it in plain view on the counter. With great deliberation, he filled the kettle with water, before putting it on the stove.

Norway pulled out a chair from the solid wooden table. Denmark wondered if his guest recognized the giant thing wedged into the corner of this too small room. "At some point, Danmark—," but that thoughtful sentence died.

Waiting. That was it. He hated the oppressive silence backing him into corners, but if he waited for long enough, he could force that silence back on Norge. For all that the man liked to think of himself as the quiet, calm one, Denmark knew better. Yeah. He still could get Norway to react the way he wanted him to. Yeah.

It had to have been at least half an hour by now, no matter what the clock said. He'd wait this out. Let Norge sweat a little bit—

"For goodness sakes, Danmark, stop being mad at me! You're very bad at it," Norway finally commented in exasperation.

Feeling oddly light and childish, Denmark crossed his arms, and stuck out his tongue. "Made you talk first."

Norge snorted. "Only because you were making me uncomfortable with your squirming, you fool. It's not pleasant to deal with someone who looks as though he just ate some bad meat. Can't you even hold a grudge without hurting yourself?"

Denmark glanced at the kettle. There wasn't even steam rising from it. At this rate it would be mid-morning before he heard the whistle. He opened the cabinet under the sink, and slipped his arm among the pipes. "Come off it, Norge. No one can. Sooooooo," he managed to extract a bottle. Sitting happily on the floor he raised the glass in a silent toast, "why are you in my city? It's quite a way for someone who isn't supposed to be leaving his land, if you're under the same orders I am."

"I've never been good with orders," Norway replied, a mysterious little half smile playing around his lips. It was a strange look on him. Nice, but strange. Norway hadn't been this lively since the early 1300s. The next words ripped Denmark from his memories and observations. "You, however, I remember being worse."

Taking a long pull from the bottle, Denmark swilled the tasteless potato distilled crap he had from Russia the last time the scarf wearing weirdo had come down with Ludwig on a diplomatic mission. Given the intense feeling of his brain cells spluttering their last gasps as he swallowed, whatever Russia's preferred poison was probably better than normal vodka. "I'm just bad with advice."

The kettle screamed over Norway's sardonic glance. "That's true," as the water continued to boil, he glared at Denmark. "Well, aren't you going to get my coffee for me?"

"Independence has made you a brat," the former king of Northern Europe decided, smirking as he levered himself to his feet with the help of the lip of the sink.

The coldness of Norway's demeanor was absolutely terrible. "You would think that. Centuries of-of _debasement_ to your rule, and then Sweden's. Have you any idea what it's like to have every decision be a question of whether you give more of your integrity to the overweening ego that rules you or to let something else come in and do something worse? No. You've never had to worry that you've compromised everything that you are. You don't worry. Instead, you mock. Typical."

Denmark's hands did not shake as he put his grounds into the glass sided compressor. "I aim for reliability," boiling water gushed down, and soon shifted from clarity to the deep brown of tree bark in the winter. Denmark nodded at a small hutch over his shoulder, as he poured. "Grab some mugs if you want any."

"_Some_ mugs?" Norway's voice had filled with raised eyebrow. "You have your poison."

Waiting patiently, Denmark shot a sour look at his guest. "It is the last of my coffee. I want my share."

What was going on? This was like talking to an articulate Sweden. Denmark could not for the life of him control the rolling irritation in his stomach. All they had done was trade barbs back and forth, and he still did not know why Norway was here. It was none of his business, of course, but: "Norge?"

The cups clattered on the counter top, annoyance ringing through them. "Yes?"

How to phrase it? Oh, why not go all out. "Look, if I guess why you came here, will you at least confirm it or deny it?"

The silence that gave him room to press down on the press, and then pour Norway's half was not encouraging. However, it might be a step forward. "So, um, I'm guessing it has nothing to do with Danish humor."

Clever fingers gripped the handle of the coffee mug. Norway seemed to be only a few seconds away from laughing, looking at the off-yellow refrigerator jammed up by the sink. "Danish humor—you're still holding onto that?"

"Oh," Denmark replied airily, brushing off the implications, and liberally dosing his coffee with the tasteless vodka. "I've known since 1864 that I'm just one of those people who doesn't know how to let go of an old joke. But don't worry. I'll find something else funny, soon."

Norway leaned back against the counter, cup of coffee slowly leeching heat between his hands. He had inclined his head over the mug, giving his face a bath in the rising steam. He probably smelled of coffee right now. "What happened, Danmark?"

"Nothing that mattered to you, obviously," Denmark tried to be aloof and stoic, tossing back his mixed drink, only to burn his tongue on the fresh coffee.

Instead of exciting an angry response about what Denmark did and did not know, and where his rights to judge stopped, Norway merely took a sip. They remained stuck, Denmark watching Norway's stilled grace for some sign that he had been struck by the obvious barb. No such luck.

The coffee still steaming around him, Norway remained a study in focused savoring. "What are the advantages of capitulation, anyway, Danmark? Do you get a thrill when Germany pats you on the head? Or is the wonder of this state of affairs because—,"

"I'm a coward," Denmark snapped, not wanting to hear any more of Norway's painful commentary. Well, he could do that, too. He could do it _better_. He was older. "Is that what you wanted to hear? Perhaps you want to show your moral superiority, eh? The great king de-throned, and while you have it bad, you'll never stoop to his contemptible level, right? Maybe you're just happy—,"

Norway did not even look at him. That hurt. The elegant man just interrupted, coolly gazing into space, as though Denmark was no more important than the next patch of air. "What would I have to be happy about, seeing you licking Nazi boots?"

What, indeed? In a violent explosion of shoulders, the Dane shrugged. "I have no idea. I'm guessing you like it when the south conquers the north."

That jab should have had some substance. Norway would never let something like that just fly past. Not for the man who tried to erase the effect of the Danish tongue, and refuse the glory that their union had been.

Instead Norway remained composed, sipping coffee. "Is that what they did to you?"

"They never conquered me. Just moved in and settled down a bit," it was a weak attempt at both lying, and Denmark wanted to change the topic right now. "So, is this going to be the rest of the day: you being a snot and talking about old wars that didn't mean much in the end, anyway?"

The man snorted, placing his cup on the counter with precise fingers. "They meant enough for you to avoid contact with other nations for seventy six years."

Adding more vodka to his coffee, the southerner found his drink cooled to his taste. "I saw Greece quite a bit in the early years. Had to deal with a bit of a situation when my government started playing with the idea that what was best for Denmark was joining the German Confederation. Started getting on very well with England. I wasn't avoiding anyone."

"Except for your old neighbors," Denmark noticed the hairline white evidence of old scars over the other man's knuckles. This occupation was not treating Norge any better than it was him, it seemed. Norge must find it irritating to hold all those reminders of bad wars all over his body. After all, Denmark had discovered that he was remembering some of his own fights with Sweden more acutely in recent years.

The coffee was wet and cool on Denmark's upper lip as he tried to think of a retort that would really drive home how unwelcome the line of conversation was. "I had things to do. Anyway, you had _other_ more important things to worry about with Sweden, didn't you? Unless I'm wrong and it was all Sweden. Tell me I'm wrong, Norge," he stared intently at his old friend. "I'll find the heavy cream and sugar and make you something in apology."

Norway paced towards a cupboard, reaching up almost as though he would check for the miraculous substances, but his hand fell away again. "Sweden has always wondered if you would ever forgive us. I have merely been curious as to whether you were able to recover at all. To think, in 1939 I thought that you were doing fine. Then the Germans came. I don't think I've every seen anyone roll over and beg on cue as quickly."

The axe was propped in his entryway with the bike. Denmark could grab that quickly enough, and then Norway would have to eat his words. And then the noise of the fight would attract the human authorities. Denmark settled for a sneer, rather than watch Norway being handed over to Prussia. "Sorry for being pragmatic."

"Since when have you ever been pragmatic?" Norway inquired, so cold, yet sinking his words in like hooks.

Denmark waved a hand. "Since I realized that I could protect my people a lot better if I didn't get into _stupid_ fights. Not that I don't miss those, you understand, Norge, but I dictate my terms to Germany. I can keep him from acting like a psychopath to my Jews. I'm not like Netherlands, stuck between sixteen interests, and failing at everything. I'm not like poor Belgium, and if you even think that I'm ending up like France, you're dead wrong. I've got my own government. Communist free, but hey, Russia's ideas always need to be taken with a grain of salt, right? I've protected everyone as best as I know. You don't think I'm not aware of what Germany and Prussia do to people who mess with them, or they just don't like the look of? I'm keeping that from happening on my soil. Call it collaboration, if you want. I call it—Norge?" Denmark reached out, almost as shaken as the target of his words. "You're bleeding. Um, under the eye. Just a little."

No head wound bled a little, and the deep gouge of a scar was traveling inexonerably up Norge's cheek. He slapped a defensive hand over his right eye. "It does that, sometimes. The mines in the North Sea have been troublesome. I often find scars I haven't seen since the Thirty Years War returning."

Denmark just stared as red welled between Norway's fingers. The cold mountain nation had never been hurt in the eye by anything less than cannon fire and that would have looked much different. "Why are you lying, Norge?"

The softness of the question apparently surprised Norway. Or perhaps the directness of it. "I'm not. Now, please, go back to your vaunted privileges. Should I emulate you, do you think? Perhaps I should jump in bed with Germany, seeing as you're already Prussia's."

"I'm not!" Denmark exclaimed, goaded by the vitriol that managed to echo from the monotone.

Through a partition and hallway both countries heard the door into the apartment suddenly shake with frantic pounding. "Hey, you Viking asshole," Prussia's unmistakeable screech of a voice reverberated through the wood, "open up."

Denmark leaped to attention, grabbing Norway by ridgid shoulders. The host propelled his guest out of the kitchen, heading right, where his bedroom with its all important closeable door, and openable window were located. They didn't have to say anything to each other. Norway just nodded, and then pulled the door half-way closed. Denmark resisted the urge to fully close it and lock it for good measure. First of all, there was no lock on his bedroom door, and secondly, it looked far more natural this way. And Norge had taken his coffee cup with him, so that was all to the good.

The pounding on the front door continued, and Denmark strolled towards it, hands in his pockets. Opening the portal, he relaxed against the frame, looking down at the bright red eyes and washed out man. "This is a respectable neighborhood, Prussia. What's a corpse like you doing bothering me?"

"Oh ha ha," Prussia pushed Denmark to one side with a strength that belayed his lack of land, and dissolution. "You know why I'm here."

Denmark followed as the blue uniformed man stumped suspiciously into the apartment, peering at the corners, and glancing at the half open door to the bedroom, before heading to the kitchen. How best to play this game? Subterfuge had never been one of Denmark's favorite past times.

He thought about the cup of alcohol laced coffee on the kitchen table. "Hey, if you're after my coffee, getcher own."

Prussia merely headed for yesterday's paper, which was still decorating the stove between the burner. He picked it up, and then flopped into the wooden chair pulled up to the table. Nearly hitting the wall with his head as he tried to get situated, he glanced at Denmark. "How the Hell do you stand this shoebox of yours, anyway? You should move somewhere with a bit of room. Now, get me a beer."

Denmark leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets. "Get it yourself. It's not as though you've raided my refrigerator enough."

Smiling in a ragged hook of fangs, Prussia snapped his fingers. "Beer. I'm already sitting, and it's nice to give your guests something. Beer. Tea. The last of your horded coffee. Things like that."

Trying not to swallow too noticeably, Denmark went to the refrigerator, and grabbed a green bottle with bad grace. "Have it. So, what's up, Prussia?"

Spreading out the paper, Prussia contemplated it at some length. "Well, this and that. Belgium bawled me out again. I'm going to have to teach her a lesson if she continues this any more. France has a soft spot for her. Or I should say a hard part, kesese," he snickered vulgarly, screwing off the top of the bottle. "Lutz is having fun with Finland. Not so much fun with Russia. You know how it is. I should go there and help him out," Prussia glanced broodingly at the paper. "Damn train travel. There aren't that many humans who need me to witness them in their grand moments anymore. It's good to know Lutz is doing his job well, of course," the dissolved province trailed off, staring mulishly at the paper. For a few seconds all was quiet, as Prussia's eyes shuttled back and forth over rows of print. The he slapped one page with a derisive hand, and turned to Denmark. "Why is there nothing good in here, anyway? I don't even see sports scores."

Denmark shrugged. "Censorship. You guys put us up to it. Nothing that complains. Nothing that offends. Thus, this is what you get: Nothing."

Throwing down the paper, Prussia drank with an unaccustomed scowl on his face. "At some point we're going to invade somewhere civilized enough to be interesting."

"You'll always have Berlin," Denmark grinned, knowing that it was cruel. If he had a kroner for each time he had heard Prussia on that particular topic, he could have done something about the economic crisis being caused by the German military marks flooding the country.

Prussia looked up at him sharply. "Berlin? Hah! I don't even know what he's done to her. She was a leader in Europe. Even during the depression, she was so full of life and beauty and now it's just gray nothing. Why'd he do that to her, do you think? I can't even tell what went wrong. Suddenly the cabaret was gone, and then the cinema and the museums were all boring, and the fashion became this stuff," he gestured at his own uniform. "Which I make look awesome, but women look too sensible in it. I like to know my humans could floor anyone else at fifty paces with pure attitude."

So did Poland, Denmark reflected sourly thinking of the fear in his streets when they all heard of the brutality of Russian and German soldiers. Thirty nine had been another age. When they thought that neutrality could protect them.

"You were seen in the company of a young man," Prussia began suddenly.

Denmark smiled. "I keep company."

The implications of that statement spread revulsion all over Prussia's features. "Man, you chose a human _and_ a boy at the same time? At least Francis usually sticks to women when he's in the mood for the perverted stuff."

Denmark shrugged. "I never said that I was sleeping with him. Just keeping company. Though maybe I should. More of your allies should confuse the Hell out of Ludwig's boss."

Prussia wiped the lip of the bottle with contemplative finger. "True enough. Fucking Austrians, I can't wait until we invade Sweden. It's going to make his stupid little comb-over stand on end."

"You're going to be invading Sweden?" Denmark asked skeptically. "Is this before or after you let your little brother take on General Winter?"

Prussia's expression said everything it needed to say. But he allowed his mouth to repeat it, because, Denmark knew, he never tired of his own voice. "General Winter's a pussy. Lutz isn't afraid of him."

Denmark just looked thoughtful, heading to the sink, peering past the ugly yellow curtains to the alley below. "He's the only one winning the war, it seems."

As expected Prussia bristled. "Fuck that! Or did you miss the mighty German Empire tromping all over your back yard. Now, get me some more beer, and cast your mind back."

Opening the refrigerator, Denmark wondered how he could get Prussia out of his house. His attempts to wring an apology from Norge had been a utter failure, so far. "Back to what?"

"The kid you 'keep company' with, Liebling," Prussia's voice purred with sweetness. "When did you come across him?"

Denmark handed over the beer. "Today, or in general? I do know every birth and death in my land at some level."

Prussia took the beer, and then grabbed Denmark's hand. The shorter man flew from his chair, spinning around Denmark, who stumbled forward, and then the arm flared in pain as the German twisted it too high for the shoulder socket to allow. Denmark hit the wood of his kitchen table with an abrupt smack, and lay still, as the blue coated man bore down with his weight. Out of the corner of his left eye, the blond witnessed the green bottle being placed on the wood with care.

Prussia's voice purred in his ear with the grim power of 19th century nights. "Don't be cute. The boy was a Norwegian. He'd jumped from a transport ship that was supposed to land at Horn, but was forced into Kopenhagen by a storm on the North Sea [52]. You met him at a little after six thirty this morning."

"He never told me any of this," Denmark grunted, feeling the edge of the table bite into his abdomen. He hadn't washed the wood recently, and his cheek was sticking to some sort of half-dried sauce. "He was just someone who stopped to talk to me."

The beer bottle lifted out of the range of vision. The weight of his captor was causing horrified tingles to run up and down his spine. Any minute now the piercing burn was going to impale his leg once again. "You're lying," Prussia modulated his voice into a low amused hiss. "You're _lying_. You don't think I don't know? I knew when Lutz let go your little girl in a burst of weak ass sentiment. I knew when Belgium told me she was surrendering that she was just looking for more time to sharpen her knife. I knew when Francis claimed that he was going to take care of Lutz what he was really going to do. You've got to be a better liar than I am to get away with it, and I'm the master of everything."

Denmark tried to toss back his head, hopping to connect with Prussia's nose. The other man's fist slammed into his hair, and suddenly lights were skittering across his vision in time to throbbing pain. "Fuck! I gave you beer!"

"Awww very good," the sweetness infused into Prussia's normal rasp was nauseating. "What a darling little beer bitch. Only you tried to shake me loose before I was done. Now, where was I?" something sharp and hard pressed into Denmark's spine. Probably the bastard's elbow. "Oh right. Tell me where your boyfriend is. Norway really should learn that when I say 'stay' I mean it."

Denmark growled into the wood. "I haven't seen Norge since 1939, but I'm not going to incriminate some kid I spoke to for all of five minutes."

Fingers tapped impatiently on his wrist. "Fine. Was that too much to ask of your wounded morals? Just tell me whether it was Norwegen or one of his people. That's all."

Denmark tried to raise his head from the table on the off chance that he could spit in the bastard's face. "Exactly how much do you value not having a war front to the north? Because—,"

WHAM! The liquid sensation of the beer seeped through his senses before the pain really introduced itself to his skull. Glass crashed onto his floor, bounced from the table. Then agony struck, digging in its talons, ripping flesh from his skull. Denmark grit his teeth.

Prussia's breath warmed his ear. "Don't lie, Dänemark. You're property of the German Empire. Respect your place. This person, whether human or one of us, has broken the peace and neutrality that we're giving you, gratis as it were. You have a responsibility, don't you? To be a good little occupied land. The model that the rest should all aspire to," The green saw edges of what was left of the bottle dug into the wet flesh of Denmark's cheek.

Stuck to his own kitchen table, looking at his ugly wall paper, the older nation finally gave in. "If Norge were in my land, he'd be kicking your pale ass right now."

The bottle dug in, as Prussia twisted slightly. "He wouldn't. For one, I'm too awesome," wet and warm, salty pain ran down Denmark's cheek. "For another, he doesn't care about you. He told me with such aplomb, Süße. How much I reminded him of you, strangling any self-expression, and grinding him down."

"Shut up."

With a chuckle, Prussia removed the bottle. "Now that's the tone I like to hear. You're beaten. This is what I call wonderful. C'mon Denmark. No one will come to help you. It has always been this way. You don't deserve it. Not after savaging all your friends. You're lucky that I'm willing to take care of you."

Leather dipped into the long cuts, smearing blood carelessly. Denmark flinched against the raw pain. "Lucky me."

The fingers left him for a second, only to return to tousle his hair. "Indeed. Now, the boy?"

Denmark grimaced, focusing on breathing thought his nose as Prussia's elbow stole half of his air. "I've told you everything. We met. We talked. I walked him back here. For all I know he's with the cat lady on the other end of the hall."

The pressure released. The German grabbed Denmark by the wet, sticky hair, and pulled him to standing. "See, that was all you had to say. Now," with the arrogance of the strong, Prussia tossed the broken bottle into Denmark's hands, "throw that away, will you? I've got to report back."

"Oh, that's all?" Denmark asked sarcastically, contemplating taking the shattered edges and using them to return the favor.

Prussia just smirked up at him. "Of course. It's a human matter at this point. Hah. Good luck to them finding the boy in this nation when it so clearly favors him," there had been plenty of significant eyebrows in Denmark's past, but this one might only be rivaled by France's when they had made their disastrous alliance, and Denmark had explained Norge's place in the union.

He left as Denmark began to clean. The old nation waited, listening at the window as he puttered around his kitchen, until finally the roar of a motor told him that the Germans were leaving. Relaxing, rather foolishly, but still relaxing a little, he walked to the half open door of the bedroom, and tapped quietly. "Norge? He's gone. Thanks for not blowing your cover. That could have gotten ugly."

The other man sidled around the painted wood, nodding silently. Denmark felt as though he was being assessed. Then Norge allowed a small smile to tug at the corners of his mouth, a private joke on the rest of the world. "I've been in enough raids to know what to do when someone like _that_ comes knocking. You know, you have many hidden depths."

Now was a good time to be suave. "Well, you know me, always hiding new depths."

"I was speaking about the condoms, wires and tamping sticks I found in the hat box in the closet. The TNT gave me a shock, as did the cordite [53]," Norge's voice remained flat. "How were you able to get your hands on all that?"

Planning on getting some of the chemical cocktail, are you, Norge? Denmark wondered. "Germany needs to watch it when he uses my factories to produce war materials, that's all. I know I'm not exactly a hub of industrialization, but hey, we all work on the principle of working with what you've got."

Norway nodded quietly. "I suppose you have plans for all that stuff."

Glad to turn the tables, Denmark just grinned. "Can't talk about that, Norge, you know that."

Talking would have been nice, though. It was surprising how much better he felt. This was worth it. If only his head didn't hurt quite so much.

Norge seemed to notice a wince, or something that clued him into the exact state of Denmark's skull. "You're bleeding."

"Yeah, just a bit. Look, I need to take a shower. Entertain yourself with the radio, or something," Denmark waved any concern off. Not that Norge was displaying concern, but Denmark would be happy to pretend that there was concern there. Just maybe it was hiding behind the inscrutable eyes.

The water was of course cold, and the chunks of glass forced from his scalp as that knit back together made Denmark worry for the state of his drains. Oh well, he would just have to be careful when cleaning up after Norway left. It was not as though he was easy to wound. Next time Prussia came over, Denmark would have to hope that the hot water hadn't been used up. Both of the occupying brothers were getting more and more tense with him, just as he was slowly putting up more icy barriers against them. He would have his land back.

No longer dripping beer, the land exited his bathroom, happily ensconced in a bathrobe. Originally Denmark had intended to quickly change, but as he passed the kitchen, he saw Norway on hands and knees with the dustpan, still sweeping the shards of glass that had hit the floor. Leaning in the doorway, Denmark watched his old friend for a while, reminded of the days when Norway would patiently spend his time cleaning up, and refitting the armory after Denmark's latest Swedish defeat.

"You don't have to do that, you know," the ancient nation commented.

Norway carefully swept the floor in a few more defiant brushes. No one was every going to tell him what to do ever again. That point made, much to Denmark's amusement, the northern nation dumped everything into the half rusted bucket that served as Denmark's dry trash. Only then did Norway deign to speak. "I think I got it all. You need to wash the table and floor, though."

Denmark shrugged. "I'll get to it."

This, predictably made Norway turn to scowl at his host. "You will do it now—," his voice trailed off, as he looked at Denmark. Expecting an adorable injunction along the lines of 'Anko, get _dressed_ will you!' the former king was surprised instead by a long considering silence. "Don't take this the wrong way, but show me your leg, Danmark."

Instinctively, Denmark clutched the bathrobe more tightly around himself. Norway tapped his foot impatiently, using his damned reptilian eyes to win the staring contest. Couldn't Norge leave well enough alone? Still seething, and hoping that Norway got more of an eyeful than he wanted, Denmark undid the knot on the belt of the robe, and let the plain white cloth fall to one side.

"How long have you had that scar?" Norway asked, very very softly, as though his steely voice had been encased in velvet.

Looking at the ceiling, the sandy blond tried to find the words that would shut down the conversation. "What do you care?"

Norge, in true irritating contrariness rose to the bait. "Answer me, Danmark. You're disguising the limp well, but you shouldn't even be limping should you?"

"It's not even any of your business," Denmark snapped, pulling the bathrobe back so that it was covering the long ropey mess marring his inner thigh. "So a wound healed badly. It happens to the best of us. You remember Germania and Rome."

Norway just stared at him. "It doesn't happen to you. You don't dwell on your injuries. Was it Prussia or Austria?"

Breakfast had been coffee and alcohol, primarily, which was why Denmark's stomach was churning now. "You didn't even enclose a note in Sverige's little letter. What happened didn't matter to you then. Should it matter now?"

Norway gazed at Denmark stubbornly, his chin thrusting forward in determination. "It was not my responsibility—"

"Responsibility?" his accuser interrupted. "Suddenly coming to the aid of a friend is a duty? You're _exactly_ like Sverige."

Rolling his eyes, Norway crossed his arms. "I had responsibilities to my people, and if you had spent a little more time at home, and less time antagonizing the Germans under your care, this never would have happened. It's not my fault! I didn't—we had to make the decision to keep troops or send them into battle for a war that was not going to stop until Prussia got his way. We could both see that. You were the only one dumb enough to believe that you could win in the end. I had no foreign power. I was not going to risk—"

"A note isn't out of the realm of diplomacy," the other interrupted, slashing through the flimsy argument. He was not going to let Norge get away with abandoning him, and _then_ acting all caring and concerned. Things didn't work like that. "Not even a 'how are you?' Not one," Denmark's voice was thickening, and he decided to shut up.

Norway inspected the floor. "Not a single one. So, I'm asking now: 'how are you?'"

Denmark nodded, his mouth compressed into a tight line. "I've been better," he took a deep breath. "Funny, through it all I expected you to come in, and scare Austria away with a single glare. Really stupid, huh? You weren't there. I hadn't really realized it. We weren't in union any more."

"Glares don't work on Prussia, however," Norway opined. "Things might have been different, of course. Retrospect is perfect, I suppose."

Unable to help it, Denmark looked for a long moment at Norway: "Would you have changed anything, given the time to remake whatever decisions you did?"

The question caused a knowing smirk to alight on Norway's face. "If I could, I would change everything. Everything. Germania's diagrams, the Black Plague, not taking care of the islands well enough, the joining the union, the wars, everything. But they made me, too."

Those little things had made the world. Denmark glanced at the ticking clock on the wall. "Hey, it will soon be time for a radio program I like. They read children's books for an hour. It's a good way to kill time, if you want."

Norway shrugged. "You should get some clothes on. So, what are you planning with those explosives, anyway?"

Denmark just grinned. "I'll tell you, if you tell me why you were heading to the Netherlands."

His neighbor just sighed. "Danmark."

"Yeeeeeeees?" the blonde leaned in, closing the distance between the two of them.

Whatever the nation had been expecting, however, as usual, Norge surprised him, placing a calloused palm against his cheek. Starting involuntarily, Denmark felt ink creeping along his veins, and blossoming in the familiar areas of his skin. "Stupid," Norge observed. "You shouldn't be so ready to give up."

He waited, watching the other nation's map with an unabashed gaze, until the lines blurred, grayed, and vanished once more. Nodding in satisfaction, Norway leaned toward Denmark without hesitation. Chaste. A simple word. It implied cloth and little skin. No pressure and butterflies. Smoothness. Coolness. A nearly clinical way of staying innocent, as though a person knew what it was like not to be chaste, and chose the other route on purpose to frustrate everyone, Denmark had thought. It was a very Norge word.

This kiss was the exact opposite of that, and everything the word contained at the same time. Norge's lips never opened. There was no panting. But they pressed comfortingly against his own, bringing their skin together warmly. Like a good conversation was filled with voices pressing against each other.

Then it was broken, and might never have happened, because Norway's hand was no longer cupping his jaw, and the moment was gone. "There. You didn't have to give anything up, Danmark."

That brought an enterprising smile to Denmark's face. "Are you sure? We might need to do a few more—,"

"I don't have time for your jokes, Anko. I need to be getting to the Netherlands, remember?" Norge stopped him. "So, turn on your radio, and get on some clothes. I'll work on cleaning the table."

Of course, of course. Denmark would probably not see Norway until the war was truly over at this rate. Who knew how long that would take? But still, it was refreshing to talk like this. He wondered why he had stopped doing it. Oh well. It was time to be getting on with things. He walked quickly to the radio and fiddled with the dial.

* * *

**April 1945 – Bologna, Italy**

In the blasted ruins of a what might have once been someone's office America listened to the sounds of gunfire. England had yet to come back from his scouting mission—perhaps he was safely back at headquarters—and now America was stuck with a tense Romano. Not that America was unhappy about that, of course. Heroes were never unhappy to protect their friends. It was just that the little Italian was muttering something under his breath, and America did not like getting stuck in the same bombed out room as people who were slowly going crazy.

"Hey, Romano?" he finally mentioned, as the whispered chant swelled into the forty fifth minute. "Perhaps you should give it a rest?"

His companion jumped slightly, only kept from toppling over by the brick wall the two of them were using as cover. "Damnit, you stupid bastard! I lost count!"

Lost count? What? "Ummmm, sorry? _What_ did you lose count of? Maybe we could find it again," America grinned hopefully, wanting something constructive to do.

Romano sighed. "Ignorant Protestant bastard. I don't have my beads."

Oh dear, America felt his forehead furrowing. He had lost his marbles just a bit at the end of the war, but then it had been a problem internal to himself, and he hadn't let anyone else see it. "Um, Romano, there are no—,"

"Jesus Christ, America! My Rosary! My Rosary! I lost it somewhere in the mountains, okay? It's like Australia always having his damn bear with him. I like telling a full Rosary. It's fucking relaxing, but hard to remember, given how f—fudging long they are."

America nodded intelligently, wondering if he could remember what a Rosary looked like. He hadn't been to church outside of the Army chaplains for five years now, and he mainly visited Protestant churches when he did. Maybe flowers were involved. Or that could be the one where the name sounded different from what it actually was. "All right, Romano, it's a promise! I'll help you find it."

Hazel eyes slid in his direction and the man shook his head. "Che. You're such an optimistic bastard. Someone will find it, and be able to use it. Hopefully a nice girl."

America nodded, perking up. "It's been a few minutes since the last barrage. Let's take the risk."

The native land nodded grimly, closing his eyes. "503 meters in the northwest, the left beam on the facade of the old government office. About your elbow height up, and the entire scaffold will collapse."

Already hoisting a brick, America glanced at Italy Romano askance. "What? How far is 503 meters?"

"Chigi! Don't ask stupid questions, bastard! It's how far it is to the next building, alright?"

"Right," America flashed him a thumbs up, and bounced up, letting his body fill the blank aperture of the window for a moment. He whirled, flinging the brick with all of his strength. The projectile flew through the air, barely changing horizontal planes as it built speed. The young nation ducked back down just before the crack of masonry.

They both listened to the rumble as the building began to fall on the humans trapped inside. Screams and bursts of gunfire told America that as always, the Italians trying to save their lives had run into allied forces as they ran from the collapsing building. He looked sympathetically to his partner, who had a knuckle in his mouth, biting back the screams.

Alfred fished in his pockets for a handkerchief. "Here," he gently pried the hand from Romano's teeth, hoping to wipe away the blood. This was what friends did for each other. This was the action of a real hero. He began to bind the hand in white. Romano was bad at fixing his own body, but other people could generally keep him together. "Is it bad?"

"Shut the fuck up, you foolish damned naïve idealistic stupid deranged faggy little bastard!" South Italy hissed, trying to rip his hand away. "Of course it's bad. I'm the fucking seat of government, and his people are still technically my damned people! Fuck. We never should have joined."

America tied the handkerchief off with a jaunty bow. "Funny how that works. I would have thought that with his other government you wouldn't have to feel both sides."

Romano sneered. "Well, I do, you stupid bastard."

Alfred smiled, getting back to his feet, and offering the other country a hand. "We'd better regroup. Iggy Eyebrows is probably going to want to play with his maps some more, and I want to know where Canada is."

Romano, hoisting himself to his feet, rolled his eyes, before grabbing his rifle. America preferred small pistols, but right now he would be happy as long as Romano wasn't holding those terrifying grenades of his. They should be banned.

The two nations ducked around the door, trying to leap the muddy trench that had once been a simple series of potholes before spring rain and tanks had gotten to them. America made it just in time to hear the splash of Romano being Italian about his jump. These Europeans needed to work on their muscles, he thought with a quick smile as he turned to pull up the spluttering man.

They, well, strolled. There the battle still in different parts of the city, given the red rashes bursting and fading over Romano's skin, but for their district it was over. Two lands could have the leisure of strolling through the town, blending into the landscape. America was not very good at this, and tended to skip ahead every so often, before kicking rocks or something of that nature from his path. Romano stuck his hands deep in his pockets, and just strolled, pretending that he had nothing to do with the eager young man waving at people and jumping over puddles.

However, even as they neared the building that England had commandeered for nation use alone, Romano's skin had become blemish free. They were winning, which made America beam in pride.

Headquarters for the nations had at one point been a hostel for English tourists—young gentlemen on the Grand Tour, as England would correct snootily—ready to see the wonders of the Apennines to the south. Poland was lounging outside, grinning up at some Italian women and trying to exchange fashion tips. They were exclaiming just as excitedly over his blonde hair and the language barrier on their end was being overcome with eager mime. America just stopped and stared for a moment.

Romano shook his head, continuing to saunter along. "Che. Cross dressing bastard is never going to get anywhere."

"He's already gotten farther than me," America marveled.

The southern half of Italy smirked and began spouting something in Italian to the women. America continued to watch in amazement as the girls all clustered around the shorter man, grinning and giggling. Several were smoothing mud stained skirts, and patting their hair.

Poland sighed, getting out of his chair, and heading in America's direction. "Like, trust Południowe Wołchy to be all over the ladies, Ameryca. Totes not cool leaving us all alone. I don't even know what they're doing to make their hair, like, seriously shiny and gorgeous."

Alfred had no good response for this, and decided just to let Poland, who seemed to be velcroed to his side at this point, to continue in his line of thought on his own until America could catch up. "Er, yeah? Look, I've got to find Iggy and report."

"Like what is there to report? It's pretty clear that that you've seriously trounced the hold outs in your sector. That totally cute boy with the bear came back from the north a few minutes ago. We're, like, ready to declare the area liberated. Once we set up a perimeter, it's beauty sleep for the rest, right? Not that the lovely women of Italy need it," he eyed them good-naturedly, before slipping into an evil grin. "Romano should be, like, ludicrously careful with the one on the left. I totally found her shooting at Germans from her attic when my battalion stormed the place."

Indeed, the woman indicated, much to America's disappointment, soon excused herself from the group, and went walking down the street, away from the nations. Sighing, the blonde slumped, before heading to the hostel. "I don't get humans, Poland. The Brits love me and hate me by turns. These ladies won't give me the time of day, and the men are generally laughing at me. Why can't they just all get along with me?"

Poland snorted. "Because, like, human nature, kiddo. Anyway, Arthur! We want to report Bologna officially liberated! You seriously need to get out the wine and whatnot!" he yelled as they walked through the small walled garden in front of the building, and into the dimness of the entryway.

England had commandeered the dining room. Radio equipment and maps were spread over every available surface. Wales waved as they walked in, and then went back to marking things up as England continued to read off names and numbers that flew over America's head.

"No! For Chirstssakes, it's not that hard! I said 51-44-N 14-38-E. You're rubbish at this! Where did the Commonwealth get to?" England steamed, working himself into a lather, even before he turned to glare at both Poland and America. "Oh, we've captured the city. How lovely. Well, while we capture this forsake place, why can't I find out where the bloody Belorussians have got to?"

Poland rolled his eyes. "No idea about Belarus, but he's, like, almost to Berlin. I've got a couple of divisions with him."

The color drained from all the faces in the room. England and America exchanged significant looks over the head of the pale blond. "A-almost to Berlin?" England repeated.

"I've got men within a quick march of the Elbow River," slamming his fist into his open palm decisively, America gave everyone a dazzlingly confident smile. "I'll put my force behind them, and we'll meet up before the Russians can take another step!"

England put a hand over his eyes. "Elbe, America. The Elbe."

"Huh?"

Poland gave him an amused turquoise glance. "Like, hello, what does it matter if Germany goes to us Easterners, or you guys? I mean, yeah, symbolic significance and everything, but, like, really, we've just got to stop Germany, and get the land back. After that it's, like, details, am I right? Okay, so Russia went a little crazy on Prusy when he came storming through. Fixing that is going to be, well, totally annoying, but it's a drop in the ocean in comparison to all those bodies Germany shoveled into the ground."

America stopped for a second, wondering what 'a little crazy' meant. Russia was one of the good guys. Good guys didn't go crazy. When they did, a lot of people who didn't deserve it got hurt. It was sort of inevitable. Which was why good guys should never go crazy. There wasn't much else separating good guys from bad guys, after all. "But, well, we're heroes," he began.

Within three seconds, England was in front of him. The shorter man's smile ticked in tight irritation, as he cast his brilliant green eyes on Poland and grabbed America by the ear. "If you'll excuse us, I need to remind this blood tosser about the 'H' word."

With that, he began to drag America towards the door to the outside once again. The younger blond, of course, protested all the way. "But Iggy—,"

"Don't call me that!"

"Iiiiiiiiggy, that's my ear! Stop treating it like your personal property. I'll bring out Yorktown if you keep this up!"

"Your ear used to be my property, and I can make it so again! Don't use that dim word 'hero' ever again while we're at war!" England slammed America into the brick of the garden wall, ruining the thorny rose canes growing there.

Alfred glared at England, and ripped away the hand holding his ear. Grimly he squeezed on Arthur's wrist until he could hear the grinding of bones. Point made, he dropped the hand. "I'm _not_ your property, England."

The shorter man growled something, before deciding to become audible once more. "Don't use—don't even call yourself a hero, America. You're not."

"We are," Alfred drew himself up, trying to keep his lips trembling. "Russia has had a bad time of things, that's all. He's getting better, and he's very strong, so he'll be able to protect everyone. We are heroes. We've stopped—,"

Arthur made a noise of badly strangled frustration. "Nnnnng! America, take it from me. You're a naïve nincompoop!"

America met England's eyes. "Do you know where my troops are, Arthur?"

Screwing up his face in thought, England poked the air with a mapping finger. "Weimar—,"

"There's a town they call Buk-en-wald. Remember the day I crashed my bomber, and New Zealand and Poland had to pull me out of the wreckage? We liberated one of those camps in that area. I know you still think that I'm you're charge, England, but you can just drop dead. I've seen evil. If I'm opposing it, then I'm on the side of good, and that's where I should be. You, and everyone else at my side are heroes. We're fighting the right fight for the right reasons."

England looked away, so he must be ashamed of his ashamed of his outburst. "It doesn't work that way, America," he managed, color rising in his cheeks. "Even if it was that way for the humans, for us it's not the fight: It's the aftermath where we prove ourselves to be heroes, or not. We've already agreed 'not.' Don't call yourself a hero. Get your men through to Berlin, okay? As for this front, find the Commonwealth, will you? Wales is next to useless, and he flings tea cups at me when he's upset."

Alfred grinned slightly. "So do I."

"Well, you're also useless," Arthur replied. "And once you've found your brother, go on patrol with Romano. I want the perimeter secured."

America grinned cheekily. "Whatever you say, Iggy. And in return, I want _you_ to wax your eyebrows."

He ran through the scratching plants and into the open world beyond the garden. Matthew was easy enough to find. He was around the back of the hostel, disassembling a light machine gun on the street. America saw the long belts of bullets for the long chamber on a crate near the Canada, who seemed to be perfectly content scrawling all over the evil looking weapon.

Crouching down, America fingered one of the Swiss cheese-like holes on the barrel. "Yo Matt. Whatcha up to?"

Canada looked up, waved in his direction distractedly, and got back to disassembleage. "I captured this at Ortorna, but I haven't had the time to look at it."

"And the verdict?" Alfred wanted to know, interested. He'd been trying to get his head around engineering, but in comparison to the other things that he could be doing, it was really boring, and he liked it when Canada explained things.

This time, his brother pursed his lips. "Well, it's faster and more powerful than the Brens. But it's finicky as Hell. I have to say, I like the kind of weapon that can be dragged through a field of mud, and still work whether or not you've cleaned it."

America looked the partially disemboweled weapon over once more, before noticing some scratches above the trigger. "Hey, have you seen this? There's a little bird on here."

Canada nodded, his face blank. "Yeah. It also came with a note saying: 'Hahaha. Ours is more awesome and better than yours.' That's not the kind of note that a dying soldier writes—I can't imagine _allowing_ a weapon to get captured. On the other hand, Germany was dealing with you on the West. He probably needed all of his allies and energy concentrated in that one area. I'm guessing there was just no time to pack things up, and, well, Prussia likes to mess with people's heads, doesn't he? I honestly thought it was rigged to explode for the first two weeks. But I figured if it could last longer than an Italian grenade than it was probably safe."

That was true enough. Alfred traced the etched circle with a sharp triangle of a beak and some sort of dot hovering above it's head. "England's yelling for you. He's trying to work out everyone's position, and co-ordinate."

Canada jumped up, raising his hands in exasperation. "Why didn't you tell me, Alfred? I should have been there half an hour ago."

"Hey, whoa, I'm not a secretary, Mattie, and it won't hurt Arthur to get a little hot under the collar."

Canada looked at Alfred skeptically. "I'm sure you don't mean that."

Confused, Alfred shrugged. "It does him good to be mad. The world is not ordered just to his liking, you know."

The northern nation removed his glasses, and rubbed at his eyes. "Are you still annoyed about his general not giving your boys credit, Alfred? Mr. Churchill himself said that it was a great moment in your history."

"Oh, I'm cool with Churchill. I'm down with that man," Alfred replied nonchalantly. "I just want Montgomery to get tossed into the ocean."

Matthew shook his head. "Look, just _try_ to get along with Arthur, whatever front your two are on. I'll report. See you at the mess for supper, right?"

Seeing Matt trot off like a trained dog, Alfred sighed to himself. Everyone seemed to be jumping to England's call these days.

"Hey, fatty bastard, where the fuck are you? Eyebrows said we've got to fucking patrol."

Even irritable Romano.

Standing, America self consciously brushed off his knees, before walking towards the sound of Italian sourness. "Hey, I'm right here."

The other man, looking very awkward in borrowed English green, waved impatiently, and they started to walk along. America checked his Colt methodically on the walk, not too worried within the urban center. There were too many of his people running around, and with Romano near by any pockets of Italians determinedly on the side of the Axis would be unable to hide. Getting out of town, however, made him re holster his gun, and grab the rifle slung over his back. He hadn't bothered with a helmet, because why do that when being shot in the head was just a temporary set back? Plus, no one on the German side was that good a sniper. Well, maybe Switzerland, but he technically wasn't on the German side was he? For all that he spoke German and shot at American planes. Maybe Alfred should ask for another run-down of European politics, because he still was having problems understanding that one. Nah. England would make fun of him again.

Stretching, America looked down at Romano. "Hey, on the bright side: no more mountains."

The man snorted. "My mountains, not my problem."

"Eh, haha. I suppose. So, how are you doin—,"

"Look, bastard, we're here to fucking patrol, not on a 'getting to know you' excursion, okay? Shut the fuck up and patrol, or some such shit, right?" Romano growled.

His forehead furrowing in worry, America really looked at Southern Italy. The man's complexion had washed out to gray ash under his skin, and just as Alfred looked over, he caught the nation in the act of massaging his temple. "Romano, I'm serious, ya know. Is everything all right?"

South Italy stopped in the middle of the track, and put his hands on his hips. "Yeah. And why should I tell an idealistic psycho like you whether things are good or not?"

It took a bit not to yell at him, America discovered. However, the blond managed to reign in his overwhelming desire to strangle the shorter man. How had he managed to forget Romano's effect on anyone surrounding him, Alfred had no idea. "Because heroes care for each other, and I'm really worried. This is a civil war, isn't it? Even with us and Germany here, it's—,"

"None of your fucking business," Romano snapped, beginning to stride ahead. "Stop being a stupid bastard, okay? If that's possible."

America looked at the surrounding countryside. Poplars lined the road at certain areas, as did thorny hedges. They would be good places for the enemy to lie in wait. However, there was not much movement. "We've got most of Italy, don't we?"

Romano nodded abruptly. "The potato bastards moved their lines back pretty far after yesterday. The resistance in Bologna was just a token effort. Feli's stupid bastards would have been killed by the civilians if we hadn't done the fucking deed."

His handkerchief wrapped hand dangled listlessly from his shoulder. America watched it intently. "Seriously, Romano, it's important to t—,"

Round on him once more, the short nation snarled. "Look, didn't you ever learn how to shut up! Mother Mary above but you're a fucking annoyance! I don't get how I didn't see it before! Your damned optimism, or something, but _nothing_ is going on, and if anything is, I don't want to _talk_ about it! I'm blocking out the worst of it, and that's a little hard to do if some needy child is fucking annoying you every second."

Alfred felt a pout coming on. "I'm not needy. I'm just doing what good guys—,"

"Stop calling yourself that! Stop calling us that! There's nothing good or—,"

"Get down!" Alfred dove across the intervening space just as a bullet tore into the earth, whipping past Romano's falling neck.

The men rolled to the edge of the road, and then down the grassy embankment on the verge, only stopping in a wet ditch. For a few seconds they lay panting, backs pressed against wet earth, argument forgotten. "More of Feliciano's people?" Alfred guessed, gulping air.

Romano shook his head, already bringing out his rifle and beginning to check it. "Che, that one was aimed at me. Fucking Germans. They won't shoot at the tall blond Aryan boy."

"I'm American!"

South Italy just laughed shortly, his head rocking back into the bank. "If it's Germans, you're the meat shield. I shoot."

America flashed a thumbs up. "Sure thing. But I'm the better shot, so—,"

South Italy grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, trying to hoist him over the lip of the embankment. "Hell no! You're the meat shield. Only heroes get that role."

Hearing that, America's muscles moved on automatic, rising above the ridge, just as Romano's rifle poked out to the side. "You know, I don't think what you said was strictly tr—,"

In what seemed like a thunderous volley, bullets began to fly. Two struck America's shoulder, sending him reeling backwards, as a third smashed into his collar bone.

He landed on something soft and swearing, before blacking out.

Coming to, he found himself shirtless, and looking at a shiny pair of foreceps. The pain hit then, and America sucked in a breath. "Darnit! Oh _fudge_! Ow. What happened?"

Matt, who was holding the medical equipment, glanced over the flames of the fire to where Arthur and South Italy were bickering. "You two walked right into a German ambush. Luckily for you Romano caught their sniper before you _fell_ on top of him, eh?"

America lay back, groaning. "This is going to be yet another thing that you will never allow me to live down, isn't it?"

"Now whatever gave you that impression?" Canada inquired innocently, cleaning blood from metal, and starting to unroll bandages. "Look on the bright side, I've got the bullets out, and you're probably going to be healed by morning. Arthur and I have set up a small camp, and soon enough our humans will be pressing on, anyway. We've already sent some divisions ahead, while we take care of you here."

Good. Alfred lay back, allowing Matt to arrange things for him. Everything was working out pretty well. Arthur spent most of his time pacing around the fire, worrying that New Zealand and Wales couldn't possibly take his place, and Poland was going to do something incredibly admirably brave and moronic. Alfred would have told him to go run after the brigades and just command them, but that would have been wishing him on Wales, New Zealand and Poland, who were nice people, and didn't deserve an irritated England harrying them.

By ten, Alfred was feeling well enough to sit up, and join the other two nations over the collapsible pot which was filled with local food, courtesy of the angry Romano. Besides some bruises from 'certain heavy bastards' their co-belligerent seemed to be doing fairly well.

That was until he started screaming. Rolling from the folding chair that England had brought with his typical foresight, Romano clutched at his head, shrieking.

America's natural reaction kicked in, as he watched the small nation convulse. "What the heck, Romano? You need something? Mattie bring over the first aid kit, or something, will ya?"

Tears were streaming down Romano's face. "Damnit! Damnit! No, that faggy little asswipe damnit! Fucking potato BASTARDS!"

He stuffed his hand into his mouth, and bit down, trying to stifle the wave of swearing, or perhaps give him something else to focus upon. England and America tried to support the quivering body, lifting him to the chair once again, as Canada returned with the med kit. South Italy thrashed out of their reach.

Hazel eyes shot with red glared foully at the "Damnit! Let go of me! This is all your fault! If I hadn't signed your damned armistice, none of this would be happening! None of it, do you hear me?"

"Tell us what is happening!" England exclaimed in frustration.

Romano glared balefully. "I'm leaving!"

America jumped up, running to Italia Romano. "Where?"

The shorter man's eyes were murderous. "The Alps."

America reached out, just as Italy bent the land around him, and began to run. For a second, America caught sight of a burning village. A feminine scream rippled out of the dark ahead of them. Shadows moved. Blood splattered. And then the world shuddered to a halt.

Germany rose out of the dark. His face was red and shiny. Wafting from him in all directions, the sour smell of old beer turned America's stomach. Romano trembled head to toe, rooted to the spot for an instant. The three of them had the high ground. Down in the dark green shadows of the valley orange and yellow flames cast their light about them to bathe the nations in red.

The savagely clear eyes lighted on them, and Germany drew his gun, with a feral growl. "Du. Verdamnte Süd Italien. Mein Bruder soll jetzt bei Krankenhaus liegen, aber ich weiß nicht wo er ist! Gibts nur Russland und England und Frankriech und America und Polen und Norwegien und Belgien und die Niederländer und Dänemark. Warum? Warum hat alles wie so passieren? Mein Freund ich habe tot gemacht—mein Freund ich habe—Sah was für eine Freund bin ich [54]!"

His hand was shaking so badly the first shot went wide, whizzing past Romano into a copse of trees. Humans cries rent the air, as the darkness of soldiers and civilians descended.

A frightened wail split the dark. "Germania! No, don't, please!"

America wanted to run. He wanted to stop this, or not know, or just not be able to because of evil plots and stratagems. But something beyond him blocked his muscles from moving. It was as though he was part of the earth, one of the mountains rising solemnly to the north, watching the nations struggle with the impassive feelings of geography.

North Italy was crawling up the small slope, dragging himself by one good arm. Romano gave a strangled shout. Germany looked blearily at the broken nation. The gun swung towards Italy. "No, get away! You're as bad as he is!"

"It's all right, Germany. Really, I don't want to fight you," Northern Italy pulled himself to a kneeling position. "It's all right. You don't want to do this."

Romano jerked forward. Germany's fist rose. The fist that had broken America's glasses. In a hundred silenced Italian voices it descended. Little Italy went flying back down the hill to be consumed by the fires. Germany turned, catching the ripping knife in Romano's hand. The gun slammed its blunt nose under Southern Italy's rib cage.

"Wie dunkel muss es sein, ob der Teufel tanzen [55]?"

The bullet tore straight through Romano's body. He slumped around the pistol point. Dropping his dead weight, Germany looked into the fires, and closed his eyes against the shrieks, that were not battle calls, and were not men dieing for glory. Without even bothering to incapacitate the third man on the hill, he holstered his gun, and walked into the inferno.

* * *

**Footnotes and Annotations**

* * *

[1] - German observers with the Austro-Hungarian Army were rightly terrified of this offensive, and some wrote back to command that the only reason that the Eastern front was holding was because the Russian Army would basically pause, waffle at every intersection, and then choose the area where the enemy defenses were the strongest, and most impregnable, as the best place to attack.

[2] - The nationalities on the borders of the Russian Empire, such as the Ukrainians, Poles, Lithuanians etc. were caught in between the two sides of the war. Most tried to side with the group they thought was going to give them the best chance at freedom from the Empire as a reward. This led to a lot of negotiation with proto-governments on both sides, promising to give each each nationality the bigger and better pieces of traditional land, etc. The majority of Ukrainians chose to side with the Russians. The Austrians, although they let Poles into their army, were exceedingly suspicious of the Ukrainians, and administered loyalty tests. Ukrainians who failed them were locked up in prisoner of war camps and treated slightly worse than people would normally treat rabid dogs.

[3] - The Brusilov Offensive began as an attempt to distract the German Army from the Western Front and give France time to breathe. Russia and France have a complicated relationship.

[4] - 'Українська Народня Республіка' is Ukrainian for 'Ukrainian National Republic' and is pronounced Ukraïnsʹka Narodnya Respublika. This would become Ukraine's name once she was granted her own house in the treaty of Brest-Livosk, which was re-affirmed in the Treaty of Versailles. The Ukrainians thought that they were getting a really good deal out of communism, and were very gung-ho about it. Then Russia post World War Two happened to them.

[5] - Cossack soldiers in WWI had a habit of carrying their dead away from the battle lines almost as quickly as they had been slain. This helps keep the corpses from piling up underfoot, and the Hungarian whose account I was reading was very impressed with the reverence and care displayed for the dead.

[6] - As a multinational army with people coming from languages with little to no connection with each other, like Hungarian and Polish, German often became the language used to communicate between disparate groups. Not having to learn any language but your own is just one of the many perks of being the conqueror. Of course, this became a problem for Austrian commanders who could not speak the language of the men under their command.

[7] - Rossii

[8] - 'Венгрия' is Russian for 'Hungary' and pronounced Vengirya

[9] - The morale of the Austrian Army was shot to pieces. If a commander did something stupid to piss off his troops, he could easily face being killed by his own men. Often times, the commanders were smart enough to realize when the line had been crossed (usually about one meal time after the food supplies ran out, but also after losing the sixth battle in a row, and not being very understanding to troops that were gibbering their remaining wits away). So, they deserted, hoping that they were close enough to the Russian lines to get placed in a POW camp, or failing that, survive until they could get very, very, very far away from anyone who spoke German. Because the Germans shot deserters without even inquiring if they were deserting or not. This was common military practice, but it was surprising how disproportionately many Austrians died like this. They became rather infamous, actually. Germans wanted to switch sides and fight with the English rather than be allied with an army of sniveling cowards. The irony of this situation is that the English felt the same way about their French counterparts. Oh what a war it could have been.

[10] - 'Австро-Венгрия' is Russian for 'Austria-Hungary' and is pronounced Avstro-Vengirya

[11] - 'Saját hegyek, Orosz Birodalom' is Hungarian for '_My_ mountains, Russian Empire'

* * *

[12] - Nicotine suppresses appetite. I realize that the nations are not portrayed as smokers, with the notable exceptions of Netherlands and Cuba, but in my universe nations in hunger situations which the right economic wherewithal generally smoke as a way of suppressing hunger. So peasant Finland wouldn't smoke in 1697, but WWI Germany and Prussia are quite dependent on cigarettes, thanks to England blockading German ports. I will also do it if it's time period appropriate, like in the 1500s and 1600s when tobacco held the same status that a cup of coffee does in today's world.

[13] - When the Russian Empire collapsed in 1917 it had to pull out of the war. The Germans, worried that Russia might re-enter after this latest upheaval was over with, demanded that all of the land with distinct nationalities between Germany, Austria and Russia be made into their own countries. This now provided a nice buffer zone between Russia and the rest of Europe. It also meant that there were now a lot of puppet states basically under the control of Germany, which was now calling the area 'Mittel Europa.' Yeah, Germany moved the center of Europe quite a bit eastward, suggesting, perhaps that there were plans for a lot of eastern expansion after the war was over. Anyway, this meant that all of the Baltic states and Finland were free from Russian rule, except for everyone's perennial favorite target: Poland. Yeah, Polska was incorporated with the rest of Germany. I like the theory that it was believed that any resistance to German control over the Baltics would inevitably spring from Poland. Unfortunately for Prussia, this meant at the end of the war massive chunks were carved out of him in order to return land to Poland. Poor life choices in action.

[14] - Poland's independence from Germany can be summarized like this: "Congratulations, you're free! You can have this blasted, shelled, mined mass grave of a battlefield to call your new home."

[15] - One of the unintended results of Russification had been that Lithuanians started to really explore what it meant to be Lithuanian, and no, it did not just mean that you were a poor Pole who could not speak Polish. By the time the Treaty of Brest-Livosk came around, Lithuanians had developed an extremely distinct culture from the Polish, and were not enamoured of the idea that they would go back to being part of Poland. Not feeling the Commonwealth vibe was really damaging to Polish relations after the war, and Poland did some aggressive things in an attempt to regain Lithuanian lands and people. Yeah. This is why there should be more WWI fics out there!

[16] - 'diabolique Prusse' is French for 'diabolical Prussia'

[17] - The French started using poison gas first, however the Germans took it, and adopted it, and made it their own.

[18] - 'Deustchland hatte keinen Fehler gemacht' is German for 'Germany has not made any mistakes!

[19] - Fun WWI fact: Germany had barely any colonies in Africa, but it did have the German Cameroons, up until the end of WWI, when it had to give up all colonial pretensions.

[20] - Obviously the famous flying ace, the Red Baron. He was a Prussian by birth, and killed in a dogfight over the British lines by either a Canadian, or a stray bullet from an Australian infantryman. He crashed behind enemy lines, and was returned to the Germans to be buried with full honors. The Red Baron commanded the Flying Circus, a squadron of hand picked German pilots who all painted their aircraft blinding rainbow colors. They were what gave Germany its reputation as a strong air power, and were only really rivaled by the all Canadian force Blackflight. The history of aviation in WWI is absolutely fascinating, and again, it is sad that I cannot do it justice in Eight Men.

[21] - The final British Forces member to be killed in WWI was a Canadian who was hit by a sniper while on patrol in Belgium, and died two minutes before 11:00. The German army standard rifles were heavier than their British counterpart, and the rate of fire was not as fast, but they made fantastic sniping tools. Normally, it would be Ludwig who would be depicted using this gun. Prussia doesn't have the patience for sniping. However, of the two, Prussia can actually see Canada, and Lutz still has trouble with that.

Other final casualties: The final Allied casualty was an American, who was shot when telling the members of his unit that there would be soup on after the armistice was signed. He died thirty seconds before 11:00. The final WWI related direct injury death was to a German who went to tell the American troops up the street that his platoon was surrendering the hotel they had been using as a headquarters. The Americans shot him, supposedly in ignorance of the armistice actually being signed.

[22] - 'Feigling' is German for 'coward'

[23] - All of these are cool WWI actions that established the British Dominions as countries that deserved equal respect on the international stage.

The Battle of the Somme was one of the bloodiest most destructive battles in history fought over two months for 12 kilometers of ground. Allied deaths were about 620,000, while the Germans lost 500,000. The Canadians were used to attack German held Courcelette, where they gained a relatively quick victory and the reputation of fast, deadly shock troops.

After Russia's capitulation, the Germans renewed their offensive on the Western Front in an unstoppable wave of death known as the Spring Offensive. Australian divisions moved to intercept the Germans actually stalled, and finally did stop them in an unprecedented military maneuver in July at Hamel.

Bazentin Ridge was one of the skirmishes in the Somme where Indian machine gunners distinguished themselves among the combatants.

New Zealand regiments on the Western Front (like the Australians they also fought on the Eastern front, but Prussia was not intimately acquainted with them there) distinguished themselves in the explosive capture of Messines Ridge, and the subsequent capture of the town of Messines.

South African soldiers, not pleased by the way they were treated by the colonial power, staged sit-ins, and protested the war. Still many went on to be killed in bloody and gruesome ways for a crown that refused to acknowledge their rights as citizens.

[24] - 'Polska odradza' is Polish for 'Poland reborn'

[25] - Norway, although remaining neutral through out the war, ended up giving England the use of their navy to help supplement supply ships.

[26] - 'Tyskland' is Norwegian for 'Germany'

[27] - This is the one that really had a drastic effect on Prussian culture after the war. You have a region where the army was the centerpiece of the young men's lives. Everyone had been through the army and could relate to one another through that experience, and suddenly this was taken away. Social upheaval was the result, and a lot of complaining that the youngsters these days didn't know anything about real discipline.

[28] - In order to attack France in 1914, Germany had the choice of marching through the Apennines mountains, or the nice flat lands of Belgium. Germany chose Belgium, and planned to take it over to use as a base from which to attack France. The thing was in order to get to Belgium, the German Army had to pass through the Netherlands. The Netherlands, seeing a massive army at the door, nodded, and let the Germans pass right through. The Belgians were less accommodating, and the German soldiers reacted badly to being shot at by civilians after the military had surrendered. This was the start of the war crimes dubbed by the British Press as 'the Rape of Belgium.'

[29] - Turkey actually ended up doing fairly well after the name change from Ottoman Empire. He had a thriving republic and managed to balance himself very well among the Balkans. He used his neutrality pretty slyly through the Second World War, and managed to avoid the problems that his neighbor Bulgaria had to deal with. Poor Bulgaria.

[30] - The League of Nations. Thumbing its nose at Prussia since 1920.

* * *

[31] - 'Preußen! Hör auf' is German for 'Prussia! Shut up and _listen_!'

[32] - 'Bruder, bitte—' is German for 'Please, brother—'

[33] - 'Nicht geil, aber, na ja, wir können—' is German for 'Not awesome, but, well, we cooooooooould—'

[34] - 'scheiße Kaiser' is German for 'the shitty Kaiser' and is how Wilhelm II, the Kaiser who reigned during the war, and is seen as responsible for the foreign policy that got the nations embroiled into it in the first place, is affectionately known. Deposing him was the end for Germany as far as continued fighting against the Allies went.

[35] - Of the various regions of Germany Prussia lost the most land, all to those nations, but since it had conquered those nations in earlier centuries, this was rather deserved. Basically, it was decided that if Prussia had taken over any land as a Kingdom that was not part of the German Empire initially, it had to give it back.

[36] - Sweden had a pretty good run in the War of the Sixth Coalition (all the way back in Chapter 3), but losing Finland to Russia did rather defeat the glory.

[37] - Prussia actually ended up pretty decently as Freistaat Prussia. He was stuck with money that was worth more as fire wood, but for a while he was considered one of the most democratic regions in all of Europe. For Eastern and central Europe, 1920s Prussia became the contemporary cultural capital. Admittedly, the competition was not fierce. Italy was losing people to America like a sieve loses water, the Netherlands and Belgium haven't had any major global cultural ambitions since the 1600s, Austria and Hungary divorced, and Hungary got into fights with the other Balkan states, and everything east of Prussia was old battlefield. But still, Prussia was awesome. That's all anyone needs to know. Then there was a coup orchestrated by people from Germany in 1932 (Thanks Lutz!), the infamous fire, and hey, Prussia, does this SS uniform fit you, or should we take it in a little at the shoulders?

[38] - The Italian Front, which had finally broken the Austro-Hungarian Army was, they felt, cheated out of the land that they should have gotten from the fracturing Empire, because the bit that they invaded had very few ethnic Italians, and the new formation of nation states under the American plan was that nations would contain people who were ethnically similar.

[39] - The date of the Kingdom of Aragon taking control over Southern Italy.

* * *

[40] - England and America, possibly because they feared that Finland would become a German state quickly recognized Finland's independence from Russia even including it in the Treaty of Versailles.

[41] - By 1919 Canada, Finland, and Russia all had prohibition laws. Like all prohibition laws these were easily circumvented, and many interesting methods of making alcohol from unlikely substances had been perfected.

[42] - When the Danish received the land of Schleswig from Germany at the end of the war they held a referendum to see how much of the province actually wanted to return to the Danish Crown. The northern half ended up wanting to return to Danish control, while the rest returned to Germany.

[43] - Anglo-Dano-Norwegian relations are awkward. To quote _Scandinavia and the World_ author Humon: Oh England. What fun the Nordics used to have with it. The British Isles were used as chess pieces for the series of wars on the North Sea that Norway and Denmark engaged in as they were growing out of the Viking phase.

[44] - As might be surmised from this statement, Lappi's real name is Sàmpi. Her region of land covers Norway, Sweden, Finland, and Russia, and her people are considered the indigenous people of Scandanavia. She has it very rough. On her shit list are Norway, for trying to turn all of her people within his borders into Norwegians (Norwegification); Sweden, for using her people as slave labor; Finland for exploiting her cultural crafts; Russia, for acting Russia-like with her people, (the few Sàmi in Russia barely have any of their culture left); and Germany for burning down all of her buildings during the Lapland War. In the modern day, Norway has done the most as far as trying to repair damage caused, and Sàmpi has homes in Norway and Sweden. Finland makes her live in his house with everyone else, and she can only visit with her people in Russia on occassion. At parties this region hangs around in the same corner as Greenland, swapping alcohol, fish, and joking about the other Nordic regions.

[45] - Thanks to reviewer Anon for pointing this out: "Germans believed that Finns collected enemy's ears as battle trophies? It's just a legend, apparently Finnish knives really stirred up their imagination." It's a common myth for a lot of different armies. The Brits thought that the Indians did the same thing, and I had heard it before about the Finns, but never really made the connection. Thanks ^^.

* * *

[46] - King Hakkon VII of Norway, the monarch that Norway got from the Danish Royal Family, convinced the Paliament not to accept occupation by the Nazis as Denmark had done. In his words: "For my part I cannot accept the German demands. It would conflict with all that I have considered to be my duty as King of Norway since I came to this country nearly thirty-five years ago." English translation from Wikipedia.

* * *

[47] - 'Anteeksi, minun täytyy lähteä kävelylle. Palaan ennen junan lähtöä' is Finish for 'Sorry. I have to go for a walk. I'll be back before the train departs.'

[48] - This one should be self evident, but like Slavs (cough, the Bulgarian Axis had a LOT of problems with that), Nazi ideology did not look kindly on the Finns. However, Finland just smiled, because Germany had no other choice in allies against Russia at that point.

* * *

[49] - In November 1942 Vichy France signed an armistice with the Allied Forces in North Africa, effectively giving up French control of the area. In response, Germany invaded France once again.

[50] - In April 1942 Belgium and the Netherlands had to institute the clothing laws that required Jew to wear the star on their person. Germany, Austria, Bohemia-Moravia, Slovakia, Norway, France and Poland already had laws about identifying marks or clothing for Jews, while Denmark, insisting that there was no 'Jewish problem' in Denmark never had identification laws under the Nazi regime.

[51] - 'God morgen' is Danish for 'Good morning.'

[52] - Horn is the German for Hoorne, Netherlands. Kopenhagen is German for Copenhagen. As for why the Netherlands: England had set up a spy network under the auspices of the Special Operations Executive for sabotage work in occupied countries during the war. The idea was to repeat the kind of operations that had helped to cripple armies at Messines in the First World War (remember that battle New Zealand impressed Prussia at? Part of it involved placing mines underneath the German trenches so precisely that when they were detonated the entire trench line was turned into quicksand), help naturally formed Resistance movements in other countries (Norway and France in particular), and generally work up nasty surprises for the enemy. Given these foreign oriented objectives, refugees from occupied areas were regularly recruited as agents, and branches of the SOE were set up in various countries. Unfortunately the Dutch branch was notorious for having lax security and the Nazis were able to infiltrate and scuttle many operations, which was especially bad when important things that could not be lost, or good agents were endangered, and the SOE had to send in teams to fix the mess. The Dutch branch managed to get itself straightened out by 1943.

[53] - And there you have all the ingredients for a homemade bomb in 1942.

* * *

[54] - 'Du. Verdamnte Süd Italien. Mein Bruder soll jetzt bei Krankenhaus liegen, aber ich weiß nicht wo er ist! Gibts nur Russland und England und Frankriech und America und Polen und Norwegien und Belgien und die Niederländer und Dänemark. Warum? Warum hat alles wie so passieren? Mein Freund ich habe tot gemacht—mein Freund ich habe—Sah was für eine Freund bin ich!' is German for "You. Damned South Italy. My brother should be in hospital right now, but I have no idea where he is! There is only Russia and England and France and America and Poland and Norway and Belgium and the Netherlands and Denmark. Why? Why has it all turned out like this? I've killed my friend—I've killed—See what kind of friend I am!'

[55] - 'Wie dunkel muss es sein, ob der Teufel tanzen?' is German for 'How dark does it have to be if the devil is going to dance?'

* * *

So, anything you particularly liked about the characters this time around? What should I change? Is Denmark being too harsh? Is Prussia too psychotic? Am I being too gentle to Germany?

~MF


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